Main  -Travelled 
Roads 


By 
HAMLIN  GARLAND 

Author  of 
Other  Main  -Travelled  Roads,  etc. 

Border  Edition 


Harper  fi§>    Brothers 

Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROADS 

Copyright,  1891,  by  The  Arena  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1803,  by  The  Century  Co. 
Copyright,  1893,  1899.  by  Ha.mlin  GarlancJ 


PS  1 

/via 


MY   FATHER  AND   MOTHER 

WHOSE  HALF-CENTURY  PILGRIMAGE  ON  THE  MAIN- 
TRAVELLED  ROAD  OF  LIFE  HAS  BROUGHT  THEM 
ONLY  TOIL  AND  DEPRIVATION,  THIS  BOOK  OF  STO 
RIES  IS  DEDICATED  BY  A  SON  TO  WHOM  EVERY 
DAY  BRINGS  A  DEEPENING  SENSE  OF  HIS  PARENTS' 
SILENT  HEROISM  ******** 


519712 


THE  MAIN-TRAVELLED  ROAD  in  the  West 
(as  everywhere)  is  hot  and  dusty  in  summer,  and  desolate 
and  drear  with  mud  in  fall  and  spring,  and  in  winter  the 
winds  sweep  the  snow  across  it ;  but  it  does  sometimes  cress  a 
rich  meadow  where  the  songs  of  the  larks  and  bobolinks  and 
blackbirds  are  tangled.  Follow  it  far  enough,  it  may  lead 
past  a  bend  in  the  river  where  the  water  laughs  eternally 
over  its  shallows.  M/? 

Mainly  it  is  long  and  wearyful,  and  has  a  dull  little  town 
at  one  end  and  a  home  of  toil  at  the  other.  Like  the  main- 
travelled  road  of  life  it  is  traversed  by  many  classes  of  people, 
but  the  poor  and  the  weary  predominate. 


j 


Table  of  Contents 


PAGE 

FOREWORD    ................        xi 

•  INTRODUCTION    ..............        I 

/<A  BRANCH  ROAD    ............    .        7*- 

^-Up  THE  COOLLY     .............  67  — 

AMONG  THE  CORN-ROWS      ..........  131  — 

J.<THE  RETURN  OF  A  PRIVATE    .........  167 

^UNDER  THE  LION'S  PAW      ..........  195—  • 

THE  CREAMERY  MAN      ...........  219  — 

A  DAY'S  PLEASURE     ............  245 

<  MRS.  RIPLEY'S  TRIP  ............  261 

UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY     ...........  281 

GOD'S  RAVENS    ..............  301 

A  "GOOD  FELLOW'S"  WIFE     .........  327*-  I 


FOREWORD 

IN  the  summer  of  1887,  after  having  been  three  years 
•  a  Boston,  and  six  years  absent  from  my  old  home  in 
northern  Iowa,  I  found  myself  with  money  enough  to 
pay  my  railway  fare  to  Ordway,  South  Dakota,  where 
my  father  and  mother  were  living,  and  as  it  cost  very 
little  extra  to  go  by  way  of  Dubuque  and  Charles 
City,  I  planned  to  visit  Osage,  Iowa,  and  the  farm 
.  e  had  opened  on  Dry  Run  prairie  in  iS/LJ 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  written  only  a  few  poems,  and 
>ome  articles  descriptive  of  boy  life  on   the  prairie, 
Jthough  I  was  doing  a  good  deal  of  thinking  and  lectur 
ing  on  land  reform,  and  was  regarded  as  a  very  intense 
disciple  of  Herbert  Spencer  and  Henry  George — a  singu 
lar  combination,  as  I  see  it  now.  On  my  way  westward, 
rhat  summer  day  in   1887,  rural  life  presented  itself 
from  an  entirely  new  angle.     The  ugliness,  the  endless 
irudgery,and  the  loneliness  of  the  farmer's  lot  smote  me 
•'ith  stern  insistence,     l-was. the  militant  reformer. 
The  farther  I  got  from  Chicago  the  more  depressing 
ne  landscape  became.    It  was  bad  enough  in  our  former 
:>me   in   Mitchell   County,   but  my   pity  grew  more 
tense  as  I  passed  from  northwest  Iowa  into  southern 
akota.     The  houses,  bare  as  boxes,  dropped  on  the 


Foreword 

treeless  plains,  the  barbed-wire  fences  running  at  right 
angles,  and  the  towns  mere  assemblages  of  flimsy 
wooden  sheds  with  painted-pine  battlement,  produced 
on  me  the  effect  of  an  almost  helpless  and  sterile 
poverty. 

My  dark  mood  was  deepened  into  bitterness  by  my 
father's  farm,  where  I  found  my  mother  imprisoned  in 
a  small  cabin  on  the  enormous  sunburnt,  treeless  plain, 
with  no  expectation  of  ever  living  anywhere  else.  De 
serted  by  her  sons  and  failing  in  health,  she  endured  the 
discomforts  of  her  life  uncomplainingly — but  my  re 
sentment  of  "things  as  they  are"  deepened  during  my 
talks  with  her  neighbors  who  were  all  housed  in  the 
same  unshaded  cabins  in  equal  poverty  and  loneliness. 
The  fact  that  at  twenty-seven  I  was  without  power  to 
aid  my  mother  in  any  substantial  way  added  to  my 
despairing  mood. 

My  savings  for  the  two  years  of  my  teaching  in  Bos 
ton  were  not  sufficient  to  enable  me  to  purchase  my 
return  ticket,  and  when  my  father  offered  me  a  stacker's 
wages  in  the  harvest  field  I  accepted  and  for  two  weeks 
or  more  proved  my  worth  with  the  fork,  which  was 
still  mightier — with  me — than  the  pen. 

However,  I  did  not  entirely  neglect  the  pen.  In  spite 
of  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  wheat  ricks  I  dreamed  of 
poems  and  stories.  My  mind  teemed  with  subjects  for 
fiction,  and  one  Sunday  morning  I  set  to  work  on  a  story 
which  had  been  suggested  to  me  by  a  talk  with  my 
mother,  and  a  few  hours  later  I  read  to  her  (seated  on 
the  low  sill  of  that  treeless  cottage)  the  first  two  thou- 


Foreword 

sand  words  of  Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip,  the  first  of  the  series 
of  sketches  which  became  Main  Travelled  Roads. 

I  did  not  succeed  in  finishing  it,  however,  till  after 
my  return  to  Boston  in  September.  During  the  fall 
and  winter  of  '87  and  the  winter  and  spring  of  '88,  I 
wrote  the  most  of  the  stories  in  Main  Travelled  Roads, 
a  novelette  for  the  Century  Magazine,  and  a  play  called 
"Under  the  Wheel."  The  actual  work  of  the  composi 
tion  was  carried  on  in  the  south  attic  room  of  Doctor 
Cross's  house  at  21  Seaverns  Avenue,  Jamaica  Plain. 

The  mood  of  bitterness  in  which  these  books  were 
written  was  renewed  and  augmented  by  a  second  visit 
to  my  parents  in  1889,  for  during  my  stay  my  mother 
suffered  a  stroke  of  paralysis  due  to  overwork  and  the 
dreadful  heat  of  the  summer.  She  grew  better  before 
the  time  came  for  me  to  return  to  my  teaching  in  Boston, 
but  I  felt  like  a  sneak  as  I  took  my  way  to  the  train 
leaving  my  mother  and  sister  on  that  bleak  and  sun 
baked  plain. 

"Old  Paps  Flaxen,"  "Jason  Edwards,"  "A  Spoil  of 
Office,"  and  most  of  the  stones  gathered  into  the  sec 
ond  volume  of  Main  Travelled  Roads  were  written  in  the 
shadow  of  these  defeats.  If  they  seem  unduly  austere, 
let  the  reader  remember  the  times  in  which  they  were 
composed.  That  they  were  true  of  the  farms  of  that  day 
no  one  can  know  better  than  I,  for  I  was  there — a 
farmer. 

Life  on  the  farms  of  Iowa  and  Wisconsin — even  on 
the  farms  of  Dakota — has  gained  in  beauty  and  secu 
rity,  I  will  admit,  but  there  are  still  wide  stretches  of 


Foreword 

territory  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska  where  the  farm 
house  is  a  lonely  shelter.  Groves  and  lawns,  better 
roads,  the  rural  free  delivery,  the  telephone,  and  the 
motor  car  have  done  much  to  bring  the  farmer  into  a 
frame  of  mind  where  he  is  contented  with  his  lot,  but 
much  remains  to  be  done  before  the  stream  of  young  life 
from  the  country  to  the  city  can  be  checked. 

The  two  volumes  of  Main  Travelled  Roads  can  now 
be  taken  to  be  what  William  Dean  Howells  called 
them,  "historical  fiction,"  for  they  form  a  record  of 
the  farmer's  life  as  I  lived  it  and  studied  it.  In  these 
two  books  is  a  record  of  the  privations  and  hardships 
of  the  men  and  women  who  subdued  the  midland  wil 
derness  and  prepared  the  way  for  the  present  golden 
age  of  agriculture. 

H.  G. 

March  J,  IQ22. 


INTRODUCTION 

AN  interesting  phase  of  fiction,  at  present,  is  the  ma 
ierial  prosperity  of  the  short  story,  which  seems  to  have 
followed  its  artistic  excellence  among  us  with  uncommon 
obedience  to  a  law  that  ought  always  to  prevail.  Until 
of  late  the  publisher  has  been  able  to  say  to  the  author, 
dazzled  and  perhaps  deceived  by  his  magazine  success 
with  short  stories,  and  fondly  intending  to  make  a  book 
of  them,  "  Yes.  But  collections  of  short  stories  don't 
sell.  The  public  won't  have  them.  I  don't  know  why  ; 
but  it  won't." 

This  was  never  quite  true  of  the  short  stories  of  Mr. 
Bret  Harte,  or  of  Miss  Sarah  Orne  Jewett,  or  of  Mr.  T. 
B.  Aldrich ;  but  it  was  too  true  of  the  short  stones  of  most 
other  writers.  For  some  reason,  or  for  none,  the  very 
people  who  liked  an  author's  short  stories  in  the  maga 
zine  could  not  bear  them,  or  would  not  buy  them,  when 
he  put  several  of  them  together  in  a  volume.  They  then 
hecame  obnoxious,  or  at  least  undesirable ;  somewhat  as 
human  beings,  agreeable  enough  as  long  as  they  are  singly 
domiciled  in  one's  block,  become  a  positive  detriment  to 
the  neighborhood  when  gathered  together  in  a  boarding- 
house.  A  novel  not  half  so  good  by  the  same  author 
would  formerly  outsell  his  collection  of  short  stories  five 
times  over.  Perhaps  it  would  still  outsell  the  stories ; 

B  I 


2  Main -Travelled  Roads 

we  rather  think  it  would;  but  not  in  that  proportion. 
The  hour  of  the  short  story  in  book  form  lias  struck, 
apparently,  for  with  all  our  love  and  veneration  for  pub 
lishers,  we  have  never  regarded  them  as  martyrs  to  litera 
ture,  and  we  do  not  believe  they  would  now  be  issuing 
so  many  volumes  of  short  stories  if  these  did  not  pay. 
Publishers,  with  all  their  virtues,  are  as  distinctly  made  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels  as  any  class  of  mortals  we 
know.  They  are,  in  fact,  a  tentative  and  timid  kind, 
never  quite  happy  except  in  full  view  of  the  main  chance  ; 
and  just  at  this  moment,  this  chance  seems  to  wear  the 
diversified  physiognomy  of  the  collected  short  stories. 
We  do  not  know  how  it  has  happened ;  we  should  not 
at  all  undertake  to  say ;  but  it  is  probably  attributable  to 
a  number  of  causes.  It  may  be  the  prodigious  popularity 
of  Mr.  Kipling,  which  has  broken  down  all  prejudices 
against  the  form  of  his  success.  The  vogue  that  Mau 
passant's  tales  in  the  original  or  in  versions  have  enjoyed 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Possibly  the 
critical  recognition  of  the  American  supremacy  in  this 
sort  has  helped.  But  however  it  has  come  about,  it  is 
certain  that  the  result  has  come,  and  the  publishers  are 
fearlessly  adventuring  volumes  of  short  stories  on  every 
hand ;  and  not  only  short  stories  by  authors  of  estab 
lished  repute,  but  by  new  writers,  who  would  certainly 
not  have  found  this  way  to  the  public  some  time  ago. 

The  change  by  no  means  indicates  that  the  pleasure 
in  large  fiction  is  dying  out.  This  remains  of  as  ample 
gorge  as  ever.  But  it  does  mean  that  a  quite  reasonless 
reluctance  has  given  way,  and  that  a  young  writer  can 


Introduction  3 

now  hope  to  come  under  the  fire  of  criticism  much  sooner 
than  before.  This  may  not  be  altogether  a  blessing ;  it 
has  its  penalties  inherent  in  the  defective  nature  of  criti 
cism,  or  the  critics ;  but  undoubtedly  it  gives  the  young 
author  definition  and  fixity  in  the  reader's  knowledge. 
It  enables  him  to  continue  a  short-story  writer  if  he  likes, 
or  it  prepares  the  public  not  to  be  surprised  at  him  if  he 
turns  out  a  novelist. 

II 

These  are  advantages,  and  we  must  not  be  impatient 
of  any  writer  who  continues  a  short-story  writer  when 
he  might  freely  become  a  novelist.  Now  that  a  writer 
can  profitably  do  so,  he  may  prefer  to  grow  his  fiction 
on  the  dwarf  stock.  He  may  plausibly  contend  that  this 
was  the  original  stock,  and  that  the  novella  was  a  short 
story  many  ages  before  its  name  was  appropriated  by  the 
standard  variety,  the  duodecimo  American,  or  the  three- 
volume  English  ;  that  Boccaccio  was  a  world-wide  celeb 
rity  five  centuries  before  George  Eliot  was  known  to 
be  a  woman.  To  be  sure,  we  might  come  back  at  him 
with  the  Greek  romancers ;  we  might  ask  him  what  he 
had  to  say  to  the  interminable  tales  of  Heliodorus  and 
Longus,  and  the  rest,'  and  then  not  let  him  say. 

But  no  such  controversy  is  necessary  to  the  enjoyment 
of  the  half  dozen  volumes  of  short  stories  at  hand,  and 
we  gladly  postpone  it  till  we  have  nothing  to  talk  about. 
At  present  we  have  only  too  much  to  talk  about  in  a 
book  so  robust  and  terribly  serious  as  Mr.  Hamlin  Gar 
land's  volume  called  Main -Travelled  Roads.  That  is 


4  Main -Travelled  Roads 

what  they  call  the  highways  in  the  part  of  the  West  that 
Mr.  Garland  comes  from  and  writes  about ;  and  these 
stories  are  full  of  the  bitter  and  burning  dust,  the  foul 
and  trampled  slush,  of  the  common  avenues  of  life,  the 
life  of  the  men  who  hopelessly  and  cheerlessly  make  the 
wealth  that  enriches  the  alien  and  the  idler,  and  impover 
ishes  the  producer. 

If  any  one  is  still  at  a  loss  to  account  for  that  uprising 
of  the  farmers  in  the  West  which  is  the  translation  of 
the  Peasants'  War  into  modern  and  republican  terms,  let 
him  read  Main -Travelled  Roads,  and  he  will  begin  to 
understand,  unless,  indeed,  Mr.  Garland  is  painting  the 
exceptional  rather  than  the  average.  The  stories  are 
full  of  those  gaunt,1  grim,  sordid,  pathetic,  ferocious 
figures,  whom  our  satirists  find  so  easy  to  caricature  as 
Hayseeds,  and  whose  blind  groping  for  fairer  conditions 
is  so  grotesque  to  the  newspapers  and  so  menacing  to 
the  politicians.  They  feel  that  something  is  wrong,  and 
they  know  that  the  wrong  is  not  theirs.  The  type 
caught  in  Mr.  Garland's  book  is  not  pretty ;  it  is  ugly 
and  often  ridiculous;  but  it  is  heart-breaking  in  its  rude 
despair. 

The  story  of  a  farm  mortgage,  as  it  is  told  in  the 

/  powerful  sketch  "  Under  the  Lion's  Paw,"  is  a  lesson  in 

I  political  economy,  as  well  as  a  tragedy  of  the  darkest 

cast.     "The  Return  of  the  Private"  is  a  satire  of  the 

keenest  edge,  as  well  as  a  tender  and  mournful  idyl  of 

the  unknown  soldier  who  comes  back  after  the  war  with 

no  blare  of  welcoming  trumpets  or  flash  of  streaming 

fla^s,   but   foot-sore,   heart-sore,   with   no   stake   in  the 


Introduction  5 

country  he  has  helped  to  make  safe  and  rich  but  the  poor 
man's  chance  to  snatch  an  uncertain  subsistence  from 
the  furrows  he  left  for  the  battle-field. 

"  Up  the  Coolly,"  however,  is  the  story  which  most 
pitilessly  of  all  accuses  our  vaunted  conditions,  wherein 
every  man  has  the  chance  to  rise  above  his  brother  and 
make  himself  richer  than  his  fellows.  It  shows  us  once 
for  all  what  the  risen  man  may  be,  and  portrays  in  his  * 
good-natured  selfishness  and  indifference  that  favorite 
ideal  of  our  system.  ^The  successful  brother  comes  * 
back  to  the  old  farmstead,  prosperous,  handsome,  well- 
dressed,  and  full  of  patronizing  sentiment  for  his  boy 
hood  days  there,  and  he  cannot  understand  why  his 
brother,  whom  hard  work  and  corroding  mortgages  have 
eaten  all  the  joy  out  of,  gives  him  a  grudging  and  surly 
welcomes  It  is  a  tremendous  situation,  and  it  is  the 
allegory  of  the  whole  world's  civilization  :  the  upper 
dog  and  the  under  dog  are  everywhere,  and  the  under 
dog  nowhere  likes  it. 

But  the  allegorical  effects  are  not  the  primary  intent 
of  Mr.  Garland's  work :  it  is  a  work  of  art,  first  of  all, 
and  we  think  of  fine  art ;  though  the  material  will  strike 
many  gentilities  as  coarse  and  common.  In  one  of  the 
stones,  u  Among  the  Corn-Rows,"  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  burly,  broad-shouldered  humor  of  a  fresh  and  native 
kind  ;  in  "  Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  "  is  a  delicate  touch,  like 
that  of  Miss  Wilkins ;  but  Mr.  Garland's  touches  are 
his  own,  here  and  elsewhere.  He  has  a  certain  harsh 
ness  and  bluntness,  an  indifference  to  the  more  delicate 
charms  of  style,  and  he  has  still  to  learn  that  though  the 


6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

thistle  is  full  of  an  unrecognized  poetry,  the  rose  has 
a  poetry,  too,  that  even  over-praise  cannot  spoil.  But 
he  has  a  fine  courage  to  leave  a  fact  with  the  reader, 
ungarnished  and  unvarnished,  which  is  almost  the  rarest 
trait  in  an  Anglo-Saxon  writer,  so  infantile  and  feeble  is 
the  custom  of  our  art ;  and  this  attains  tragical  sublim 
ity  in  the  opening  sketch,  "A  Branch  Road,"  where 
the  lover  who  has  quarrelled  with  his  betrothed  comes 
back  to  find  her  mismated  and  miserable,  such  a  farm 
wife  as  Mr.  Garland  has  alone  dared  to  draw,  and 
tempts  the  broken-hearted  drudge  away  from  her  love 
less  home.  It  is  all  morally  wrong,  but  the  author 
leaves  you  to  say  that  yourself.  He  knows  that  his 
business  was  with  those  two  people,  their  passions  and 
their  probabilities. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS 
(In  the  Editor* t  Study,  "Harftr's  Magazine  "). 


A   BRANCH    ROAD 

tfKeep  the  main- travelled  road  till  you 
tome  to  a  branch  leading  off — keep  te 
tie  right" 


A   BRANCH    ROAD 

IN  the  windless  September  dawn  a  voice  went  ring 
ing  clear  and  sweet,  a  man's  voice,  singing  a  cheap 
and  common  air.  Yet  something  in  the  sound  of  it 
told  he  was  young,  jubilant,  and  a  happy  lover. 

Above  the  level  belt  of  timber  to  the  east  a  vast 
dome  of  pale  undazzling  gold  was  rising,  silently  and 
swiftly.  Jays  called  in  the  thickets  where  the  maples 
flamed  amid  the  green  oaks,  with  irregular  splashes  of 
red  and  orange.  The  grass  was  crisp  with  frost  under 
the  feet,  the  road  smooth  and  gray-white  in  color,  the 
air  was  indescribably  pure,  resonant,  and  stimulating. 
No  wonder  the  man  sang! 

±  He  came  into  view  around  the  curve  in  the  lane.  He 
had  a  fork  on  his  shoulder,  a  graceful  and  polished  tool. 
His  straw  hat  was  tilted  on  the  back  of  his  head;  his 
rough,  faded  coat  was  buttoned  close  to  the  chin, 
and  he  wore  thin  buckskin  gloves  on  his  hands.  He 
looked  muscular  and  intelligent,  and  was  evidently  about 
twenty-two  years  of  age. 

As  he  walked  on,  and  the  sunrise  came  nearer  to  him, 
he  stopped  his  song.  The  broadening  heavens  had  a 
majesty  and  sweetness  that  made  him  forget  the  physical 
joy  of  happy  youth.  He  grew  almost  sad  with  the 

9 


IO  Main -Travelled  Roads 

vague  thoughts  and  great  emotions  which  rolled  in  his 
brain  as  the  wonder  of  the  morning  grew. 

He  walked  more  slowly,  mechanically  following  the 
road,  his  eyes  on  the  ever-shifting  streaming  banners  of 
rose  and  pale  green,  which  made  the  east  too  glorious 
for  any  words  to  tell.  The  air  was  so  still  it  seemed  to 
await  expectantly  the  coming  of  the  sun. 

Then  his  mind  went  forward  to  Agnes.  Would  she 
see  it  ?  She  was  at  work,  getting  breakfast,  but  he 
hoped  she  had  time  to  see  it.  He  was  in  that  mood^ 
so  common  to  him  now,  wherein  he  could  not  fully 
enjoy  any  sight  or  sound  unless  sharing  it  with  her. 
Far  down  the  road  he  heard  the  sharp  clatter  of  a 
wagon.  The  roosters  were  calling  near  and  far,  in 
many  keys  and  tunes.  The  dogs  were  barking,  cattle- 
bells  were  jangling  in  the  wooded  pastures,  and  as  the 
youth  passed  farmhouses,  lights  in  the  kitchen  windows 
showed  that  the  women  were  astir  about  breakfast,  and 
the  sound  of  voices  and  the  tapping  of  curry-combs  at 
the  br.rn  told  that  the  men  were  at  their  morning  chores. 

And  the  east  bloomed  broader !  The  dome  of  gold 
grew  brighter,  the  faint  clouds  here  and  there  flamed 
with  a  flush  of  red.  The  frost  began  to  glisten  with  a 
reflected  color.  The  youth  dreamed  as  he  walked ;  his 
broad  face  and  deep  earnest  eyes  caught  and  retained 
some  part  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  sky. 

But  his  brow  darkened  as  he  passed  a  farm  gate  and 
a  young  man  of  about  his  own  age  joined  him.  The 
other  man  was  equipped  for  work  like  himself. 

«  Hello,  Will !  " 


A  Branch  Road  n 

«  Hello,  Ed  !  " 

"  Going  down  to  help  Dingman  thrash  ! " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Will,  shortly.  It  was  easy  to  see  he 
did  not  welcome  company. 

"  So'm  I.  Who's  goin'  to  do  your  thrashin'  —  Dave 
McTurg  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so.     Haven't  spoken  to  anybody  yet." 

They  walked  on  side  by  side.  Will  hardly  felt  like 
being  rudely  broken  in  on  in  this  way.  The  two  men 
were  rivals,  but  Will,  being  the  victor,  would  have  been 
magnanimous,  only  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his  lover's 
dream. 

"  When  do  you  go  back  to  the  Sem  ?  "  Ed  asked  after 
a  little. 

"  Term  begins  next  week.  I'll  make  a  break  about 
second  week." 

"  Le's  see  :  you  graduate  next  year,  don't  yeh  ?  " 

"  I  expect  to,  if  I  don't  slip  up  on  it." 

They  walked  on  side  by  side,  both  handsome 
fellows ;  Ed  a  little  more  showy  in  his  face,  which 
had  a  certain  clear-cut  precision  of  line,  and  a  peculiai 
clear  pallor  that  never  browned  under  the  sun.  He 
chewed  vigorously  on  a  quid  of  tobacco,  one  of  his  most, 
noticeable  bad  habits. 

Teams  could  be  heard  clattering  along  on  several 
roads  now,  and  jovial  voices  singing.  One  team  coming 
along  rapidly  behind  the  two  men,  the  driver  sung  out 
in  good-natured  warning,  u  Get  out  o'  the  way,  there." 
And  with  a  laugh  and  a  chirp  spurred  his  horses  to  pass 
them. 


12  Main-Travelled  Roads 

Ed,  with  a  swift  understanding  of  the  driver's  trick, 
flung  out  his  left  hand  and  caught  the  end-gate,  threw  his 
fork  in  and  leaped  after  it.  Will  walked  on,  disdaining 
attempt  to  catch  the  wagon.  On  all  sides  now  the 
wagons  of  the  ploughmen  or  threshers  were  getting  out 
into  the  fields,  with  a  pounding,  rumbling  sound. 

The  pale-red  sun  was  shooting  light  through  the 
leaves,  and  warming  the  boles  of  the  great  oaks  that 
stood  in  the  yard,  and  melting  the  frost  off  the  great 
gaudy,  red  and  gold  striped  threshing  machine  standing 
between  the  stacks.  The  interest,  picturesqueness,  of 
it  all  got  hold  of  Will  Hannan,  accustomed  to  it  as 
he  was.  The  horses  stood  about  in  a  circle,  hitched 
to  the  ends  of  the  six  sweeps,  every  rod  shining  with 
frost. 

The  driver  was  oiling  the  great  tarry  cog-wheela 
underneath.  Laughing  fellows  were  wrestling  about  the 
yard.  Ed  Kinney  had  scaled  the  highest  stack,  and 
stood  ready  to  throw  the  first  sheaf.  The  sun,  lighting 
him  where  he  stood,  made  his  fork-handle  gleam  like 
dull  gold.  Cheery  words,  jests,  and  snatches  of  song 
rose  everywhere.  Dingman  bustled  about  giving  his 
orders  and  placing  his  men,  and  the  voice  of  big  David 
McTurg  was  heard  calling  to  the  men  as  they  raised  the 
long  stacker  into  place  : 

"  Heave  ho,  there  !     Up  she  rises  !  " 

And,  best  of  all,  Will  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  smiling 
girl-face  at  the  kitchen  window  that  made  the  blood  beat 
in  his  throat. 

"  Hello,  Will !  "  was  the  general  greeting,  given  with 


A  Branch  Road  13 

some  constraint  by  most  of  the  young  fellows,  for  Will 
had  been  going  to  Rock  River  to  school  for  some  years, 
and  there  was  a  little  feeling  of  jealousy  on  the  part  of 
those  who  pretended  to  sneer  at  the  "  seminary  chaps 
like  Will  Hannan.  and  Milton  Jennings." 

Dingman  came  up.  "  Will,  I  guess  you'd  better  go 
on  the  stack  with  Ed." 

"  All  ready.  Hurrah,  there  !  "  said  David  in  his  soft 
but  resonant  bass  voice  that  always  had  a  laugh  in  it. 
"  Come,  come,  every  sucker  of  yeh  git  hold  o'  some 
thing.  All  ready !  "  He  waved  his  hand  at  the  driver, 
who  climbed  upon  his  platform.  Everybody  scrambled 
into  place. 

The  driver  began  to  talk : 

"C£/£,  chk!  All  ready,  boys!  Stiddy  there,  Dan! 
Ckk^  cbk  !  All  ready,  boys  !  Stiddy  there,  boys  !  All 
ready  now ! "  The  horses  began  to  strain  at  the 
sweeps.  The  cylinder  began  to  hum. 

"  Grab  a  root  there !  Where's  my  band-cutter  ? 
Here,  you,  climb  on  here  !  "  And  David  reached  down 
and  pulled  Shep  Watson  up  by  the  shoulder  with  his 
gigantic  hand. 

Boo-oo-oo-oom,  Boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-owm, 
yarr,  yarr !  The  whirling  cylinder  boomed,  roared,  and 
snarled  as  it  rose  in  speed.  At  last,  when  its  tone  be 
came  a  rattling  yell,  David  nodded  to  the  pitchers  and 
rasped  his  hands  together.  The  sheaves  began  to  fall 
from  the  stack  ;  the  band-cutter,  knife  in  hand,  slashed 
the  bands  in  twain,  and  the  feeder  with  easy  majestic 
movement  gathered  them  under  his  arm,  rolled  them  out 


14  Main -Travelled  Roads 

into  an  even  belt  of  entering  wheat,  on  which  the 
cylinder  tore  with  its  smothered,  ferocious  snarl. 

Will  was  very  happy  in  a  quiet  way.  He  enjoyed 
the  smooth  roll  of  his  great  muscles,  and  the  sense  of 
power  in  his  hands  as  he  lifted,  turned,  and  swung  the 
heavy  sheaves  two  by  two  upon  the  table,  where  the  band- 
cutter  madly  slashed  away.  His  frame,  sturdy  rather  than 
tall,  was  nevertheless  lithe,  and  he  made  a  fine  figure  to 
look  at,  so  Agnes  thought,  as  she  came  out  a  moment 
and  bowed  and  smiled. 

This  scene,  one  of  the  jolliest  and  most  sociable  of 
the  Western  farm,  had  a  charm  quite  aside  from  human 
companionship.  The  beautiful  yellow  straw  entering 
the  cylinder ;  the  clear  yellow-brown  wheat  pulsing  out 
at  the  side ;  the  broken  straw,  chaff,  and  dust  puffing  out 
on  the  great  stacker ;  the  cheery  whistling  and  calling  of 
the  driver ;  the  keen,  crisp  air,  and  the  bright  sun  some 
how  weirdly  suggestive  of  the  passage  of  time. 

Will  and  Agnes  had  arrived  at  a  tacit  understand 
ing  of  mutual  love  only  the  night  before,  and  Will  was 
powerfully  moved  to  glance  often  toward  the  house,  but 
feared  as  never  before  the  jokes  of  his  companions.  He 
worked  on,  therefore,  methodically,  eagerly ;  but  his 
thoughts  were  on  the  future  —  the  rustle  of  the  oak-tree 
near  by,  the  noise  of  whose  sere  leaves  he  could  distin 
guish  sifting  beneath  the  booming  snarl  of  the  machine, 
was  like  the  sound  of  a  woman's  dress :  on  the  sky 
were  great  fleets  of  clouds  sailing  on  the  rising  wind, 
like  merchantmen  bound  to  some  land  of  love  and 
plenty. 


A  Branch  Road  15 

When  the  Dingmans  first  came  in,  only  a  coupie 
of  years  before,  Agnes  had  been  at  once  surrounded  by 
a  swarm  of  suitors.  Her  pleasant  face  and  her  abound 
ing  good-nature  made  her  an  instant  favorite  with  all. 
Will,  however,  had  disdained  to  become  one  of  the 
crowd,  and  held  himself  aloof,  as  he  could  easily  do, 
being  away  at  school  most  of  the  time. 

The  second  winter,  however,  Agnes  also  attended 
the  seminary,  and  Will  saw  her  daily,  and  grew  to  love 
her.  He  had  been  just  a  bit  jealous  of  Ed  Kinney  all 
the  time,  for  Ed  had  a  certain  rakish  grace  in  dancing 
and  a  dashing  skill  in  handling  a  team,  which  made  him 
a  dangerous  rival. 

But,  as  Will  worked  beside  him  all  the  Monday,  he 
felt  so  secure  in  his  knowledge  of  the  caress  Agnes  had 
given  him  at  parting  the  night  before  that  he  was  per 
fectly  happy  —  so  happy  that  he  didn't  care  to  talk,  only 
to  work  on  and  dream  as  he  worked. 

Shrewd  David  McTurg  had  his  joke  when  the  ma 
chine  stopped  for  a  few  minutes.  "Well,  you  fellers 
do  better  'n  I  expected  yeh  to,  after  bein'  out  so  late  last 
night.  The  first  feller  I  see  gappin'  has  got  to  treat  to 
the  apples." 

"  Keep  your  eye  on  me,"  said  Shep  Watson. 

"  You  ?  "  laughed  one  of  the  others.  u  Anybody 
knows  if  a  girl  so  much  as  looked  crossways  at  you, 
you'd  fall  in  a  fit." 

"  Another  thing,"  said  David.  "  I  can't  have  you 
fellers  carryin'  grain  goin'  to  the  house  every  minute 
for  fried  cakes  or  cookies." 


1 6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Now  you  git  out,"  said  Bill  Young  from  the  straw 
pile.  "  You  ain't  goin'  to  have  all  the  fun  to  yerself." 

Will's  blood  began  to  grow  hot  in  his  face.  If  Bill 
had  said  much  more,  or  mentioned  Agnes  by  name,  he 
would  have  silenced  him.  To  have  this  rough  joking 
come  to  a  close  upon  the  holiest  and  most  exquisite 
evening  of  his  life  was  horrible.  It  was  not  the  words 
they  said,  but  the  tones  they  used,  that  vulgarized  it  all. 
He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  sound  of  the  ma 
chine  began  again. 

This  jesting  made  him  more  wary,  and  when  the  call 
for  dinner  sounded  and  he  knew  he  was  going  to  see 
her,  he  shrank  from  it.  He  took  no  part  in  the  race 
of  the  dust-blackened,  half-famished  men  to  get  at  the 
washing-place  first.  He  took  no  part  in  the  scurry  to 
get  seats  at  the  first  table. 

//  Threshing-time  was  always  a  season  of  great  trial 
to  the  housewife.  To  have  a  dozen  men  with  the 
appetites  of  dragons  to  cook  for,  in  addition  to  their 
other  everyday  duties,  was  no  small  task  for  a  couple 
of  women.  Preparations  usually  began  the  night  before 
with  a  raid  on  a  hen-roost,  for  "  biled  chickun  "  formed 
the  piece  de  resistance  of  the -dinner.  The  table,  enlarged 
by  boar3s7~rIITed  the  sitting  room.  Extra  seats  were 
made  out  of  planks  placed  on  chairs,  and  dishes  were 
borrowed  from  neighbors,  who  came  for  such  aid  in  their 
turn. 

Sometimes  the  neighboring  women  came  in  to  help ; 
but  Agnes  and  her  mother  were  determined  to  manage 
the  job  alone  this  year,  and  so  the  girl,  in  neat  dark 


A  Branch  Road  17 

dress,  her  eyes  shining,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  the 
work,  received  the  men  as  they  came  in,  dusty,  coatless, 
with  grime  behind  their  ears,  but  a  jolly  good  smile  on 
every  face. 

Most  of  them  were  farmers  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
her  schoolmates.  The  only  one  she  shrank  from  was 
Bill  Young,  with  his  hard,  glittering  eyes  and  red,  sordid 
face.  She  received  their  jokes,  their  noise,  with  a  silent 
smile  which  showed  her  even  teeth  and  dimpled  her 
round  cheek.  "She  was  good  for  sore  eyes,"  as  one  of 
the  fellows  said  to  Shep.  She  seemed  deliciously  sweet 
and  dainty  to  these  roughly  dressed  fellows. 

They  ranged  along  the  table  with  a  great  deal  of  noise, 
boots  thumping,  squeaking,  knives  and  forks  rattling, 
voices  bellowing  out. 

"  Now  hold  on,  Steve  !  Can't  hev  yeh  so  near  that 
chickun !  " 

"  Move  along,  Shep !  I  want  to  be  next  to  the 
kitchen  door!  1  won't  get  nothin'  with  you  on  that 
side  o'  me." 

u  Oh,  that's  too  thin  !     I  see  what  you're  —  " 

"No,  I  won't  need  any  sugar,  if  you  just  smile  into  it." 
This  from  gallant  David,  greeted  with  roars  of  laughter. 

"  Now,  Dave,  s'pose  your  wife  'ud  hear  o'  that  ? " 

"  She'd  snatch  Jim  bald-headed,  that's  what  she'd  do." 

"Say,  somebody  drive  that  ceow  down  this  way," 
said  Bill. 

"  Don't  get  off  that  drive  !  It's  too  old,"  criticised 
Shep,  passing  the  milk-jug. 

Potatoes  were  seized,  cut  in  halves,  sopped  in  gravy, 


1 8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

/  and  taken  one,  two  /  Corn  cakes  went  into  great  jaws 
like  coal  into  a  steam-engine.  Knives  in  the  right  hand 
cut  meat  and  scooped  gravy  up.  Great,  muscular, 
grimy,  but  wholesome  fellows  they  were,  feeding^  like 
ancient  Norse,  and  capable  of  working  like  demons. 
They  were  deep  in  the  process,  half-hidden  by  steam 
from  the  potatoes  and  stew,  in  less  than  sixty  seconds 
after  their  entrance. 

With  a  shrinking  from  the  comments  of  the  others 
upon  his  regard  for  Agnes,  Will  assumed  a  reserved  and 
almost  haughty  air  toward  his  fellow-workmen,  and  a 
curious  coldness  toward  her.  As  he  went  in,  she  came 
forward  smiling  brightly. 

"  There's  one  more  place,  Will."  A  tender,  invol 
untary  droop  in  her  voice  betrayed  her,  and  Will  felt  a 
wave  of  hot  blood  surge  over  him  as  the  rest  roared. 

"  Ha,  ha  !     Oh,  there'd  be  a  place  for  htm  !  " 

ct  Don't  worry,  Will  !     Always  room  for  you  here  !  " 

Will  took  his  seat  with  a  sudden,  angry  flame. 

"  Why  can't  she  keep  it  from  these  fools  ?  "  was  his 
thought.  He  didn't  even  thank  her  for  showing  him 
the  chair. 

She  flushed  vividly,  but  smiled  back.  She  was  so 
proud  and  happy  she  didn't  care  very  much  if  they  did 
know  it.  But  as  Will  looked  at  her  with  that  quick, 
angry  glance,  she  was  hurt  and  puzzled.  She  redoubled 
her  exertions  to  please  him,  and  by  so  doing  added  to 
the  amusement  of  the  crowd  that  gnawed  chicken-bones, 
rattled  cups,  knives,  and  forks,  and  joked  as  they  ate 
with  small  grace  and  no  material  loss  of  time. 


A  Branch   Road  19 

Will  remained  silent  through  it  all,  eating  his  potato, 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  others,  with  his  fork  instead 
of  his  knife,  and  drinking  his  tea  from  his  cup  rather 
than  from  his  saucer  — "  finnickies "  which  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  the  girl  nor  the  sharp  eyes  of  the 
workmen. 

"  See  that  ?  That's  the  way  we  do  down  to  the 
Sem  !  See  ?  Fork  for  pie  in  yer  right  hand  !  Hey  ? 
/can't  do  it?  Watch  me!" 

When  Agnes  leaned  over  to  say,  "Won't  you  have 
some  more  tea,  Will  ? "  they  nudged  each  other  and 
grinned.  "  Aha  !  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

Agnes  saw  at  last  that  for  some  reason  Will  didn't 
want  her  to  show  her  regard  for  him — that  he  was 
ashamed  of  it  in  some  way,  and  she  was  wounded.  To 
cover  it  up,  she  resorted  to  the  natural  device  of  smiling 
and  chatting  with  the  others.  She  asked  Ed  if  he 
wouldn't  have  another  piece  of  pie. 

"I  will  —  with  a  fork,  please." 

"  This  is  'bout  the  only  place  you  can  use  a  fork,"  said 
Bill  Young,  anticipating  a  laugh  by  his  own  broad  grin. 

"  Oh,  that's  too  old,"  said  Shep  Watson.  "  Don't 
drag  that  out  agin.  A  man  that'll  eat  seven  taters  —  " 

"  Shows  who  does  the  work." 

"Yes,  with  his  jaws,"  put  in  Jim  Wheelock,  the 
driver. 

"  If  you'd  put  in  a  little  more  work  with  soap  'n  water 
before  comin'  in  to  dinner,  it  'ud  be  a  religious  idee," 
said  David. 

"  It  ain't  healthy  to  wash." 


ao  Main -Travel led  Roads 

«  Well,  you'll  live  forever,  then." 

"  He  ain't  washed  his  face  sence  I  knew  'im." 

"  Oh,  that's  a  little  too  tough  !  He  washes  once  a 
week,"  said  Ed  Kinney. 

"  Back  of  his  ears  ? "  inquired  David,  who  was 
munching  a  doughnut,  his  black  eyes  twinkling  with 
fun. 

"  Yep." 

"  What's  the  cause  of  it  ?  " 

"  Dade  says  she  won't  kiss  'im  if  he  don't." 

Everybody  roared. 

ct  Good  fer  Dade  !      I  wouldn't  if  I  was  in  her  place." 

Wheelock  gripped  a  chicken-leg  imperturbably,  and 
left  it  bare  as  a  toothpick  with  one  or  two  bites  at  it. 
His  face  shone  in  two  clean  sections  around  his  nose 
and  mouth.  Behind  his  ears  the  dirt  lay  undisturbed. 
The  grease  on  his  hands  could  not  be  washed  off. 

Will  began  to  suffer  now  because  Agnes  treated  the 
other  fellows  too  well.  With  a  lover's  exacting  jeal 
ousy,  he  wanted  her  in  some  way  to  hide  their  tender 
ness  from  the  rest,  and  also  to  show  her  indifference  to 
men  like  Young  and  Kinney.  He  didn't  stop  to  in 
quire  of  himself  the  justice  of  such  a  demand,  nor  just 
how  it  was  to  be  done.  He  only  insisted  she  ought  to 
do  it. 

He  rose  and  left  the  table  at  the  end  of  his  dinner 
without  having  spoken  to  her,  without  even  a  tender, 
significant  glance,  and  he  knew,  too,  that  she  was 
troubled  and  hurt.  But  he  was  suffering.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  had  lost  something  sweet,  lost  it  irrecoverably. 


A  Branch  Road  21 

He  noticed  Ed  Kinney  and  Bill  Young  were  the  last 
to  come  out,  just  before  the  machine  started  up  again 
after  dinner,  and  he  saw  them  pause  outside  the  thresh 
old  and  laugh  back  at  Agnes  standing  in  the  doorway. 
Why  couldn't  she  keep  those  fellows  at  a  distance,  not 
go  out  of  her  way  to  bandy  jokes  with  them  ? 

In  some  way  the  elation  of  the  morning  was  gone. 
He  worked  on  doggedly  now,  without  looking  up,  with 
out  listening  to  the  leaves,  without  seeing  the  sunlighted 
clouds.  Of  course  he  didn't  think  that  she  meant  any 
thing  by  it,  but  it  irritated  him  and  made  him  unhappy. 
She  gave  herself  too  freely. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  machine 
stopped  for  some  repairing ;  and  while  Will  lay  on  his 
stack  in  the  bright  yellow  sunshine,  shelling  wheat  in  his 
hands  and  listening  to  the  wind  in  the  oaks,  he  heard 
his  name  and  her  name  mentioned  on  the  other  side 
of  the  machine,  where  the  measuring-box  stood.  He 
listened. 

u  She's  pretty  sweet  on  him,  ain't  she  ?  Did  yeh 
notus  how  she  stood  around  over  him  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  an'  did  yeh  see  him  when  she  passed  the  cup 
o'  tea  down  over  his  shoulder  ?  " 

Will  got  up,  white  with  wrath,  as  they  laughed. 

"  Someway  he  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  it  as  I  would.  I 
wish  she'd  reach  her  arm  over  my  neck  that  way." 

Will  walked  around  the  machine,  and  came  on  the 
group  lying  on  the  chaff  near  the  straw-pile. 

"Say,  I  want  you  fellers  to  understand  that  I  won't 
have  any  more  of  this  talk.  I  won't  have  it." 


22  Main -Travelled  Roads 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  Bill  Young  got 
up. 

"  What  yeh  goin'  to  do  about  ut  ?  "  he  sneered. 

"  I'm  going  to  stop  it." 

The  wolf  rose  in  Young.  He  moved  forward,  his 
ferocious  soul  flaming  from  his  eyes. 

u  W'y,  you  damned  seminary  dude,  I  can  break  you 
in  two  ! " 

An  answering  glare  came  into  Will's  eyes.  He 
grasped  and  slightly  shook  his  fork,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him  unconsciously. 

"  If  you  make  one  motion  at  me,  I'll  smash  your  head 
like  an  egg-shell  !  "  His  voice  was  low  but  terrific. 
There  was  a  tone  in  it  that  made,  his  own  blood  stop  in 
his  veins.  "  If  you  think  Pm  going  to  roll  around  on 
this  ground  with  a  hyena  like  you,  you've  mistaken  your 
man.  I'll  kill  you,  but  I  won't  fight  with  such  men  as 
you  are." 

Bill  quailed  and  slunk  away,  muttering  some  epithet 
like  "  coward." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  call  me^  but  just  remember 
what  I  say :  you  keep  your  tongue  off"  that  girl's 
affairs." 

"  That's  the  talk,"  said  David.  "  Stand  up  for  your 
girl  always,  but  don't  use  a  fork.  You  can  handle  him 
without  that." 

"  I  don't  propose  to  try,"  said  Will,  as  he  turned 
away.  As  he  did  so,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Ed  Kinney 
at  the  well,  pumping  a  pail  of  water  for  Agnes,  who 
stood  beside  him,  the  sun  on  her  beautiful  yellow  hair. 


A  Branch  Road  23 

She  was  laughing  at  something  Ed  was  saying  as  he 
slowly  moved  the  handle  up  and  down. 

Instantly,  like  a  foaming,  turbid  flood,  his  rage  swept 
out  toward  her.  "  It's  all  her  fault,"  he  thought,  grind 
ing  his  teeth.  "  She's  a  fool.  If  she'd  hold  herself  in, 
like  other  girls  !  But  no  ;  she  must  smile  and  smile  at 
everybody."  It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  but  it  sent  a 
shiver  through  him. 

He  worked  on  with  teeth  set,  white  with  rage.  He 
had  an  impulse  that  would  have  made  him  assault  her 
with  words  as  with  a  knife.  He  was  possessed  of  a 
terrible  passion  which  was  hitherto  latent  in  him,  and 
which  he  now  felt  to  be  his  worst  self.  But  he  was 
powerless  to  exorcise  it.  His  set  teeth  ached  with  the 
stress  of  his  muscular  tension,  and  his  eyes  smarted  with 
the  strain. 

He  had  always  prided  himself  on  being  cool,  calm, 
above  these  absurd  quarrels  which  his  companions  had 
indulged  in.  He  didn't  suppose  he  could  be  so  moved. 
As  he  worked  on,  his  rage  settled  into  a  sort  of  stubborn 
bitterness  —  stubborn  bitterness  of  conflict  between  this 
evil  nature  and  his  usual  self.  It  was  the  instinct  of 
possession,  the  organic  feeling  of  proprietorship  of  a 
woman,  which  rose  to  the  surface  and  mastered  him. 
He  was  not  a  self-analyst,  of  course,  being  young,  though 
he  was  more  introspective  than  the  ordinary  farmer. 

He  had  a  great  deal  of  time  to  think  it  over  as  he 
worked  on  there,  pitching  the  heavy  bundles,  but  still 
he  did  not  get  rid  of  the  miserable  desire  to  punish 
Agnes  ;  and  when  she  came  out,  looking  very  pretty  in 


24  Main -Travelled  Roads 

her  straw  hat,  and  came  around  near  his  stack,  he  knew 
she  came  to  see  him,  to  have  an  explanation,  a  smile; 
and  yet  he  worked  away  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his 
eyes,  hardly  noticing  her. 

Ed  went  over  to  the  edge  of  the  stack  and  chatted 
with  her ;  and  she  —  poor  girl !  —  feeling  Will's  neg 
lect,  could  only  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  and  show 
that  she  didn't  mind  it,  by  laughing  back  at  Ed. 

All  this  Will  saw,  though  he  didn't  appear  to  be  look- 
ing.  And  when  Jim  Wheelock  —  Dirty  Jim  —  with 
his  whip  in  his  hand,  came  up  and  playfully  pretended 
to  pour  oil  on  her  hair,  and  she  laughingly  struck  at  him 
with  a  handful  of  straw,  Will  wouldn't  have  looked  at 
her  if  she  had  called  him  by  name. 

She  looked  so  bright  and  charming  in  her  snowy  apron 
and  her  boy's  straw  hat  tipped  jauntily  over  one  pink 
ear,  that  David  and  Steve  and  Bill,  and  even  Shep,  found 
a  way  to  get  a  word  with  her,  and  the  poor  fellows  in 
the  high  straw-pile  looked  their  disappointment  and  shook 
their  forks  in  mock  rage  at  the  lucky  dogs  on  the  ground. 
But  Will  worked  on  like  a  fiend,  while  the  dapples  of 
light  and  shade  fell  on  the  bright  face  of  the  merry  girl. 

To  save  his  soul  from  hell-flames  he  couldn't  have 
gone  over  there  and  smiled  at  her.  It  was  impossible. 
A  wall  of  bronze  seemed  to  have  arisen  between  them. 
Yesterday  —  last  night — seemed  a  dream.  The  clasp 
of  her  hands  at  his  neck,  the  touch  of  her  lips,  were  like 
the  caresses  of  an  ideal  in  some  revery  long  ago. 

As  night  drew  on  the  men  worked  with  a  steadier, 
more  mechanical  action.  No  one  spoke  now.  Each 


A  Branch  Road  25 

man  was  intent  on  his  work.  No  one  had  any  strength 
or  breath  to  waste.  The  driver  on  his  power,  changed 
his  weight  on  weary  feet  and  whistled  and  sang  at  the 
tired  horses.  The  feeder,  his  face  gray  with  dust,  rolled 
the  grain  into  the  cylinder  so  evenly,  so  steadily,  so 
swiftly  that  it  ran  on  with  a  sullen,  booming  roar.  Far 
up  on  the  straw-pile  the  stackers  worked  with  the  steady, 
rhythmic  action  of  men  rowing  a  boat,  their  figures  loom 
ing  vague  and  dim  in  the  flying  dust  and  chaff,  outlined 
against  the  glorious  yellow  and  orange-tinted  clouds. 

"  Phe-e-eew-^,"  whistled  the  driver  with  the  sweet, 
cheery,  rising  notes  of  a  bird.  u  Chk,  chk,  chk!  Phe- 
e-eew-e  !  Go  on  there,  boys  !  Chk,  chk,  chk  !  Step 
up  there,  Dan,  step  up  !  (Snap  /)  Phe-e-eew-ee  ! 
G'-wan  —  g'-wan,  g'-wan  !  Chk,  chk,  chk  !  Wheest, 
wheest,  wheest !  Chk,  chk  !  " 

In  the  house  the  women  were  setting  the  table  for 
supper.  The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  oaks, 
flinging  glorious  rose-color  and  orange  shadows  along 
the  edges  of  the  slate-blue  clouds.  Agnes  stopped  her 
work  at  the  kitchen  window  to  look  up  at  the  sky,  and 
cry  silently.  "  What  was  the  matter  with  Will  ?  " 
She  felt  a  sort  of  distrust  of  him  now.  She  thought  she 
knew  him  so  well,  but  now  he  was  so  strange. 

"  Come,  Aggie,"  said  Mrs.  Dingman,  "  they're  gettin' 
'most  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  stack.  They'll  be  pilin' 
in  here  soon." 

"Phe-e-eew-ee!  G'-wan,  Doll!  G'-wan,  boys! 
Chk,  chk,  chk  !  Phe-e-eew-ee  !  "  called  the  driver  out 
in  the  dusk,  cheerily  swinging  the  whip  over  the  horses' 


26  Main -Travelled  Roads 

backs.  Boom-oo-oo-oom  !  roared  the  machine,  with  a  muf 
fled,  monotonous,  solemn  tone.  "  G'-wan,  boys ! 
G'-wan,  g'-wan  ! " 

Will  had  worked  unceasingly  all  day.  His  muscles 
ached  with  fatigue.  His  hands  trembled.  He  clenched 
his  teeth,  however,  and  worked  on,  determined  not  to 
yield.  He  wanted  them  to  understand  that  he  could  do 
as  much  pitching  as  any  of  them,  and  read  Caesar's  Com 
mentaries  beside.  It  seemed  as  if  each  bundle  were 
the  last  he  could  raise.  The  sinews  of  his  wrist  pained 
him  so;  they  seemed  swollen  to  twice  their  natural  size. 
But  still  he  worked  on  grimly,  while  the  dusk  fell  and 
the  air  grew  chill. 

At  last  the  bottom  bundle  was  pitched  up,  and  he  got 
down  on  his  knees  to  help  scrape  the  loose  wheat  into 
baskets.  What  a  sweet  relief  it  was  to  kneel  down,  to 
release  the  fork,  and  let  the  worn  and  cramping  muscles 
settle  into  rest !  A  new  note  came  into  the  driver's 
voice,  a  soothing  tone,  full  of  kindness  and  admiration 
for  the  work  his  teams  had  done. 

"  Wo-o-o,  lads  !  Stiddy-y-y,  boys  !  Wo-o-o,  there, 
Dan.  Stiddy,  stiddy,  old  man  !  Ho,  there  !  "  The  cyl 
inder  took  on  a  lower  key,  with  short,  rising  yells,  as  it 
ran  empty  for  a  moment.  The  horses  had  been  going 
so  long  that  they  came  to  a  stop  reluctantly.  At  last 
David  called,  "  Turn  out !  "  The  men  seized  the  ends 
of  the  sweep,  David  uncoupled  the  tumbling-rods,  and 
Shep  slowly  shoved  a  sheaf  of  grain  into  the  cylinder, 
choking  it  into  silence. 

The  stillness  and  the  dusk  were  very  impressive.     So 


A   Branch  Road  27 

long  had  the  bell-metal  cog-wheel  sung  its  deafening 
song  into  his  ear  that,  as  he  walked  away  into  the  dusk, 
Will  had  a  weird  feeling  of  being  suddenly  deaf,  and  his 
legs  were  so  numb  that  he  could  hardly  feel  the  earth. 
He  stumbled  away  Jike  a  man  paralyzed. 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  the  dust  from 
his  face  as  best  he  could,  shook  his  coat,  dusted  his 
shoulders  with  a  grain-sack,  and  was  starting  away, 
when  Mr.  Dingman,  a  rather  feeble,  elderly  man,  came 
up. 

"  Come,  Will,  supper's  all  ready.     Go  in  and  eat." 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  home  to  supper." 

"  Oh,  no ;  that  won't  do.  The  women'll  be  expect 
ing  you  to  stay." 

The  men  were  laughing  at  the  well,  the  warm  yellow 
light  shone  from  the  kitchen,  the  chill  air  making  it  seem 
very  inviting,  and  she  was  there  —  waiting !  But  the 
demon  rose  in  him.  He  knew  Agnes  would  expect 
him,  and  she  would  cry  that  night  with  disappointment, 
but  his  face  hardened.  "  I  guess  I'll  go  home,"  he  said, 
and  his  tone  was  relentless.  He  turned  and  walked 
away,  hungry,  tired  —  so  tired  he  stumbled,  and  so  un 
happy  he  could  have  wept. 

II 

On  Thursday  the  county  fair  was  to  be  held.  The 
fair  is  one  of  the  gala-days  of  the  year  in  the  country 
districts  of  the  West,  and  one  of  the  times  when  the 
country  lover  rises  above  expense  to  the  extravagance 


28  Main -Travelled  Roads 

of  hiring  a  top-buggy,  in  which  to  take  his  sweetheart 
to  the  neighboring  town. 

It  was  customary  to  prepare  for  this  long  beforehand, 
for  the  demand  for  top-buggies  was  so  great  the  livery 
men  grew  dictatorial,  and  took  no  chances.  Slowly  but 
surely  the  country  beaux  began  to  compete  with  the 
clerks,  and  in  many  cases  actually  outbid  them,  as  they 
furnished  their  own  horses  and  could  bid  higher,  in  con 
sequence,  on  the  carriages. 

Will  had  secured  his  brother's  "rig,"  and  early  on 
Thursday  morning  he  was  at  work,  busily  washing  the 
mud  from  the  carnage,  dusting  the  cushions,  and  polish 
ing  up  the  buckles  and  rosettes  on  his  horses'  harnesses. 
It  was  a  beautiful,  crisp,  clear  dawn — the  ideal  day  for 
a  ride ;  and  Will  was  singing  as  he  worked.  He  had 
regained  his  real  self,  and,  having  passed  through  a  bitter 
period  of  shame,  was  now  joyous  with  anticipation  of 
forgiveness.  He  looked  forward  to  the  day,  with  its 
chances  of  doing  a  thousand  little  things  to  show  his 
regret  and  his  love. 

He  had  not  seen  Agnes  since  Monday ;  Tuesday  he 
did  not  go  back  to  help  thresh,  and  Wednesday  he  had 
been  obliged  to  go  to  town  to  see  about  board  for  the 
coming  term  ;  but  he  felt  sure  of  her.  It  had  all  been 
arranged  the  Sunday  before;  she'd  expect  him,  and  he 
was  to  call  at  eight  o'clock. 

He  polished  up  the  colts  with  merry  tick-tack  of  the 
brush  and  comb,  and  after  the  last  stroke  on  their  shin 
ing  limbs,  threw  his  tools  in  the  box  and  went  to  the 
house. 


A  Branch  Road  29 

"  Pretty  sharp  last  night,"  said  his  brother  John,  who 
was  scrubbing  his  face  at  the  cistern. 

"  Should  say  so  by  that  rim  of  ice,"  Will  replied,  dip 
ping  his  hands  into  the  icy  water. 

"  I  ought  'o  stay  home  to-day  and  dig  'tates,"  con 
tinued  the  older  man,  thoughtfully,  as  they  went  into 
the  woodshed  and  wiped  consecutively  on  the  long 
roller-towel.  "  Some  o'  them  Early  Rose  lay  right  on 
top  o'  the  ground.  They'll  get  nipped,  sure." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not.  You'd  better  go,  Jack  ;  you  don't 
get  away  very  often.  And  then  it  would  disappoint 
Nettie  and  the  children  so.  Their  little  hearts  are 
overflowing,"  he  ended,  as  the  door  opened  and  two 
sturdy  little  boys  rushed  out. 

u  B'ekfuss,  poppa  ;  all  yeady  !  " 

The  kitchen  table  was  set  near  the  stove  ;  the  window 
let  in  the  sun,  and  the  smell  of  sizzling  sausages  and 
the  aroma  of  coffee  filled  the  room. 

The  kettle  was  doing  its  duty  cheerily,  and  the  wife, 
with  flushed  face  and  smiling  eyes,  was  hurrying  to  and 
fro,  her  heart  full  of  anticipation  of  the  day's  outing. 

There  was  a  hilarity  almost  like  some  strange  intoxi 
cation  on  the  part  of  the  two  children.  They  danced 
and  chattered  and  clapped  their  chubby  brown  hands 
and  ran  to  the  windows  ceaselessly. 

"  Is  yuncle  Will  goin'  yide  nour  buggy  ?  " 

u  Yus  ;  the  buggy  and  the  colts." 

"  Is  he  goin'  to  take  his  girl  ?  " 

Will  blushed  a  little  and  John  roared. 

"  Yes,  I'm  goin'  —  " 


30  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Is  Aggie  your  girl  ?  " 

"  H'yer  !  h'yer!  young  man,"  called  John,  "you're 
gettin'  personal." 

"  Well,  set  up !  "  said  Nettie,  and  with  a  good  deal 
of  clatter  they  drew  around  the  cheerful  table. 

Will  had  already  begun  to  see  the  pathos,  the  pitiful 
significance  of  his  great  joy  over  a  day's  outing,  and  he 
took  himself  a  little  to  task  at  his  own  selfish  freedom. 
He  resolved  to  stay  at  home  some  time  and  let  Nettie 
go  in  his  place.  A  few  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
on  Sunday,  three  or  four  holidays  in  summer;  the  rest 
of  the  year,  for  this  cheerful  little  wife  and  her  patient 
husband,  was  made  up  of  work  —  work  which  accom 
plished  little  and  brought  them  almost  nothing  that  was 
beautiful. 

While  they  were  eating  breakfast,  teams  began  to 
clatter  by,  huge  lumber-wagons  with  three  seats  across, 
and  a  boy  or  two  jouncing  up  and  down  with  the  dinner 
baskets  near  the  end-gate.  The  children  rushed  to  the 
window  each  time  to  announce  who  it  was  and  how 
many  there  were  in. 

But  as  Johnny  said  "  firteen "  each  time,  and  Ned 
wavered  between  "  seven  "  and  "  sixteen,"  it  was  doubt 
ful  if  they  could  be  relied  upon.  They  had  very  little 
appetite,  so  keen  was  their  anticipation  of  the  ride  and 
the  wonderful  sights  before  them.  Their  little  hearts 
shuddered  with  joy  at  every  fresh  token  of  preparation 
—  a  joy  that  made  Will  say,  "  Poor  little  men  !  " 

They  vibrated  between  the  house  and  the  barn  while 
the  chores  were  being  finished,  and  their  happy  cries 


A  Branch  Road  31 

started  the  young  roosters  into  a  renewed  season  of 
crowing.  And  when  at  last  the  wagon  was  brought 
out  and  the  horses  hitched  to  it,  they  danced  like  mad 
sprites. 

After  they  had  driven  away,  Will  brought  out  the 
colts,  hitched  them  in,  and  drove  them  to  the  hitching- 
post.  Then  he  leisurely  dressed  himself  in  his  best  suit, 
blacked  his  boots  with  considerable  exertion,  and  at 
about  7.30  o'clock  climbed  into  his  carriage  and  gathered 
up  the  reins. 

He  was  quite  happy  again.  The  crisp,  bracing  air, 
the  strong  pull  of  the  spirited  young  team,  put  all 
thought  of  sorrow  behind  him.  He  had  planned  it  all 
out.  He  would  first  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kiss 
her — there  would  not  need  to  be  any  words  to  tell  hei 
how  sorry  and  ashamed  he  was.  She  would  know  ! 

Now,  when  he  was  alone  and  going  toward  her  on  a 
beautiful  morning,  the  anger  and  bitterness  of  Monday 
fled  away,  became  unreal,  and  the  sweet  dream  of  the 
Sunday  parting  grew  the  reality.  She  was  waiting  for 
him  now.  She  had  on  her  pretty  blue  dress,  and  the 
wide  hat  that  always  made  her  look  so  arch.  He  had 
said  about  eight  o'clock. 

The  swift  team  was  carrying  him  along  the  cross 
road,  which  was  little  travelled,  and  he  was  alone  with 
his  thoughts.  He  fell  again  upon  his  plans.  Another 
year  at  school  for  them  both,  and  then  he'd  go  into  a 
law  office.  Judge  Brown  had  told  him  he'd  give  him  — 

"Whoa!  Ho!" 

There  was  a  swift  lurch  that  sent  him  flying  over  the 


32  Main -Travelled  Roads 

dasher.  A  confused  vision  of  a  roadside  ditch  full  of 
weeds  and  bushes,  and  then  he  felt  the  reins  in  his  hands 
and  heard  the  snorting  horses  trample  on  the  hard  road. 

He  rose  dizzy,  bruised,  and  covered  with  dust.  The 
team  he  held  securely  and  soon  quieted.  The  cause  of 
the  accident  was  plain ;  the  right  fore-wheel  had  come  off, 
letting  the  front  of  the  buggy  drop.  He  unhitched  the 
excited  team  from  the  carriage,  drove  them  to  the  fence 
and  tied  them  securely,  then  went  back  to  find  the  wheel, 
and  the  burr  whose  failure  to  hold  its  place  had  done  all 
the  mischief.  He  soon  had  the  wheel  on,  but  to  find 
the  burr  was  a  harder  task.  Back  and  forth  he  ranged, 
looking,  scraping  in  the  dust,  searching  the  weeds. 

He  knew  that  sometimes  a  wheel  will  run  without 
the  burr  for  many  rods  before  coming  off,  and  so  each 
time  he  extended  his  search.  He  traversed  the  entire 
half  mile  several  times,  each  time  his  rage  and  disappoint 
ment  getting  more  bitter.  He  ground  his  teeth  in  a 
fever  of  vexation  and  dismay. 

He  had  a  vision  of  Agnes  waiting,  wondering  why  he 
did  not  come.  It  was  this  vision  that  kept  him  from 
seeing  the  burr  in  the  wheel-track,  partly  covered  by  a 
clod.  Once  he  passed  it  looking  wildly  at  his  watch, 
which  was  showing  nine  o'clock.  Another  time  he 
passed  it  with  eyes  dimmed  with  a  mist  that  was  almost 
tears  of  anger. 

There  is  no  contrivance  that  will  replace  an  axle- 
burr,  and  farm-yards  have  no  unused  axle-burrs,  and  so 
Will  searched.  Each  moment  he  said  :  "I'll  give  it  up, 
get  onto  one  of  the  horses,  and  go  down  and  tell  her." 


A  Branch  Road  33 

But  searching  for  a  lost  axle-burr  is  like  fishing ;  the 
searcher  expects  each  moment  to  find  it.  And  so  he 
groped,  and  ran  breathlessly,  furiously,  back  and  forth, 
and  at  last  kicked  away  the  clod  that  covered  it,  and 
hurried,  hot  and  dusty,  cursing  his  stupidity,  back  to  the 
team. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  as  he  climbed  again  into  the  buggy, 
and  started  his  team  on  a  swift  trot  down  the  road. 
What  would  she  think  ?  He  saw  her  now  with  tearful 
eyes  and  pouting  lips.  She  was  sitting  at  the  window, 
with  hat  and  gloves  on ;  the  rest  had  gone,  and  she  was 
waiting  for  him. 

But  she'd  know  something  had  happened,  because  he 
had  promised  to  be  there  at  eight.  He  had  told  her 
what  team  he'd  have.  (He  had  forgotten  at  this  mo 
ment  the  doubt  and  distrust  he  had  given  her  on  Mon 
day.)  She'd  know  he'd  surely  come. 

But  there  was  no  smiling  or  tearful  face  watching  at 
the  window  as  he  came  down  the  lane  at  a  tearing  pace, 
and  turned  into  the  yard.  The  house  was  silent,  and 
the  curtains  down.  The  silence  sent  a  chill  to  his  heart. 
Something  rose  up  in  his  throat  to  choke  him. 

"  Agnes  !  "  he  called.     "  Hello  !     I'm  here  at  last !  " 

There  was  no  reply.  As  he  sat  there  the  part  he  had 
played  on  Monday  came  back  to  him.  She  may  be 
sick  !  he  thought,  with  a  cold  thrill  of  fear. 

An  old  man  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  with 
a  potato  fork  in  his  hands,  his  teeth  displayed  in  a  grin. 

"She  ain't  here.     She's  gone  " 

"Gone!" 


34  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"Yes  —  more'n  an  hour  ago." 

«  Who'd  she  go  with  ?  " 

"  Ed  Kinney,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  a  malicious 
grin.  "  I  guess  your  goose  is  cooked." 

Will  lashed  the  horses  into  a  run,  and  swung  round 
the  yard  and  out  of  the  gate.  His  face  was  white  as  a 
dead  man's,  and  his  teeth  were  set  like  a  vice.  He 
glared  straight  ahead.  The  team  ran  wildly,  steadily 
homeward,  while  their  driver  guided  them  unconsciously 
without  seeing  them.  His  mind  was  filled  with  a  tem 
pest  of  rages,  despairs,  and  shames. 

That  ride  he  will  never  forget.  In  it  he  threw  away 
all  his  plans.  He  gave  up  his  year's  schooling.  He 
gave  up  his  law  aspirations.  He  deserted  his  brother 
and  his  friends.  In  the  dizzying  whirl  of  passions  he 
had  only  one  clear  idea  —  to  get  away,  to  go  West,  to 
escape  from  the  sneers  and  laughter  of  his  neighbors,  and 
to  make  her  suffer  by  it  all. 

He  drove  into  the  yard,  did  not  stop  to  unharness  the 
team,  but  rushed  into  the  house,  and  began  packing  his 
trunk.  His  plan  was  formed.  He  would  drive  to  Cedar- 
ville,  and  hire  some  one  to  bring  the  team  back.  He 
had  no  thought  of  anything  but  the  shame,  the  insult, 
she  had  put  upon  him.  Her  action  on  Monday  took  on 
the  same  levity  it  wore  then,  and  excited  him  in  the 
same  way.  He  saw  her  laughing  with  Ed  over  his  dis 
may.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  her  at  last  — 
a  letter  that  came  from  the  ferocity  of  the  mediaeval 
savage  in  him : 

"  If  you  want  to  go  to  hell  with  Ed  Kinney,  you  can. 


A  Branch  Road  35 

I  won't  say  a  word.     That's  where  he'll  take  you.     You 
won't  see  me  again." 

This  he  signed  and  sealed,  and  then  he  bowed  his 
head  and  wept  like  a  girl.  But  his  tears  did  not  soften 
the  effect  of  the  letter.  It  went  as  straight  to  its  mark 
as  he  meant  it  should.  It  tore  a  seared  and  ragged  path 
to  an  innocent,  happy  heart,  and  he  took  a  savage  pleas 
ure  in  the  thought  of  it  as  he  rode  away  in  the  cars 
toward  the  South. 


Ill 

The  seven  years  lying  between  1880  and  1887  made 
a  great  change  in  Rock  River  and  in  the  adjacent  farm 
ing  land.  Signs  changed  and  firms  went  out  of  business 
with  characteristic  Western  ease  of  shift.  The  trees 
grew  rapidly,  dwarfing  the  houses  beneath  them,  and 
contrasts  of  newness  and  decay  thickened. 

Will  found  the  country  changed,  as  he  walked  along 
the  dusty  road  from  Rock  River  toward  "  The  Corners." 
The  landscape  was  at  its  fairest  and  liberalest,  with  its 
seas  of  corn,  deep-green  and  moving  with  a  mournful 
rustle,  in  sharp  contrast  to  its  flashing  blades ;  its  gleam 
ing  fields  of  barley,  and  its  wheat  already  mottled  with 
soft  gold  in  the  midst  of  its  pea-green. 

The  changes  were  in  the  hedges,  grown  higher,  in  the 
greater  predominance  of  cornfields  and  cattle  pastures, 
and  especially  in  the  destruction  of  homes.  As  he 
passed  on,  Will  saw  the  grass  growing  and  cattle  feed 
ing  on  a  dozen  places  where  homes  had  once  stood. 


36  Main -Travelled  Roads 

They  had  given  place  to  the  large  farm  and  the  stock- 
raiser.  Still  the  whole  scene  was  bountiful  and  beautiful 
to  the  eye. 

It  was  especially  grateful  to  Will,  for  he  had  spent 
nearly  all  his  years  of  absence  among  the  rocks,  treeless 
swells,  and  bleak  cliffs  of  the  Southwest.  The  crickets 
rising  before  his  dusty  feet  appeared  to  him  something 
sweet  and  suggestive,  and  the  cattle  feeding  in  the  clover 
moved  him  to  deep  thought  —  they  were  so  peaceful  and 
slow  motioned. 

As  he  reached  a  little  popple  tree  by  the  roadside,  he 
stopped,  removed  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  put  his  elbows 
on  the  fence,  and  looked  hungrily  upon  the  scene.  The 
sky  was  deeply  blue,  with  only  here  and  there  a  huge, 
heavy,  slow-moving,  massive,  sharply  outlined  cloud  sail 
ing  like  a  berg  of  ice  in  a  shoreless  sea  of  azure. 

In  the  fields  the  men  were  harvesting  the  ripened  oats 
and  barley,  and  the  sound  of  their  machines  clattering, 
now  low,  now  loud,  came  to  his  ears.  Flies  buzzed 
near  him,  and  a  kingbird  clattered  overhead.  He  noticed 
again,  as  he  had  many  a  time  when  a  boy,  that  the  soft 
ened  sound  of  the  far-off  reaper  was  at  times  exactly 
like  the  hum  of  a  bluebottle  fly  buzzing  heedlessly 
about  his  ears. 

A  slender  and  very  handsome  young  man  was  shock 
ing  grain  near  the  fence,  working  so  desperately  he  did 
not  see  Will  until  greeted  by  him.  He  looked  up, 
replied  to  the  greeting,  but  kept  on  until  he  had  finished 
his  last  stook;  then  he  came  to  the  shade  of  the  tree 
and  took  off  his  hat. 


A  Branch  Road  37 

"  Nice  day  to  sit  under  a  tree  and  fish." 

Will  smiled.  "  I  ought  to  know  you,  I  suppose ;  I 
used  to  live  here  years  ago." 

"  Guess  not ;  we  came  in  three  years  ago." 

The  young  man  was  quick-spoken  and  pleasant  to 
look  at.  Will  felt  freer  with  him. 

"  Are  the  Kinneys  still  living  over  there  ? "  He 
nodded  at  a  group  of  large  buildings. 

"  Tom  lives  there.  Old  man  lives  with  Ed.  Tom 
ousted  the  old  man  some  way,  nobody  seems  to  know 
how,  and  so  he  lives  with  Ed." 

Will  wanted  to  ask  after  Agnes,  but  hardly  felt  able. 
"  I  s'pose  John  Hannan  is  on  his  old  farm  ?  " 

u  Yes.     Got  a  good  crop  this  year." 

Will  looked  again  at  the  fields  of  rustling  wheat  over 
which  the  clouds  rippled,  and  said  with  an  air  of  con 
viction  :  "  This  lays  over  Arizony,  dead  sure." 

"  You're  from  Arizony,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  a  good  ways  from  it,"  Will  replied,  in  a 
way  that  stopped  further  question.  "  Good  luck  !  "  he 
added,  as  he  walked  on  down  the  road  toward  the  creek, 
musing. 

"And  the  spring  —  I  wonder  if  that's  there  yet.  I'd 
like  a  drink."  The  sun  seemed  hotter  than  at  noon, 
and  he  walked  slowly.  At  the  bridge  that  spanned  the 
meadow  brook,  just  where  it  widened  over  a  sandy  ford, 
he  paused  again.  He  hung  over  the  rail  and  looked  at 
the  minnows  swimming  there. 

u  I  wonder  if  they're  the  same  identical  chaps  that 
used  to  boil  and  glitter  there  when  I  was  a  boy  —  looks 


38  Main -Travelled  Roads 

. 

so.  Men  change  from  one  generation  to  another,  but 
the  fish  remain  the  same.  The  same  eternal  procession 
of  types.  I  suppose  Darwin  'ud  say  their  environment 
remains  the  same.'* 

He  hung  for  a  long  time  over  the  railing,  thinking 
of  a  vast  number  of  things,  mostly  vague,  flitting  things, 
looking  into  the  clear  depths  of  the  brook,  and  listening 
to  the  delicious  liquid  note  of  a  blackbird  swinging  on 
the  willow.  Red  lilies  starred  the  grass  with  fire,  and 
golden-rod  and  chicory  grew  everywhere ;  purple  and 
orange  and  yellow-green  the  prevailing  tints. 

Suddenly  a  water-snake  wriggled  across  the  dark  pool 
above  the  ford  and  the  minnows  disappeared  under  the 
shadow  of  the  bridge.  Then  Will  sighed,  lifted  his 
head  and  walked  on.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
prophetic  in  it,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath.  That's  the 
way  his  plans  broke  and  faded  away. 

Human  life  does  not  move  with  the  regularity  of  a 
clock.  In  living  there  are  gaps  and  silences  when  the 
soul  stands  still  in  its  flight  through  abysses  —  and  there 
come  times  of  trial  and  times  of  struggle  when  we  grow 
old  without  knowing  it.  Body  and  soul  change  appal 
lingly. 

Seven  years  of  hard,  busy  life  had  made  changes  in 
Will. 

His  face  had  grown  bold,  resolute,  and  rugged  ;  some 
of  its  delicacy  and  all  of  its  boyish  quality  was  gone. 
His  figure  was  stouter,  erect  as  of  old,  but  less  graceful. 
He  bore  himself  like  a  man  accustomed  to  look  out 
for  himself  in  all  kinds  of  places.  It  was  only  at  times 


A  Branch  Road  39 

that  there  came  into  his  deep  eyes  a  preoccupied,  almost 
sad,  look  which  showed  kinship  with  his  old  self. 

This  look  was  on  his  face  as  he  walked  toward  the 
clump  of  trees  on  the  right  of  the  road. 

He  reached  the  grove  of  popple  trees  and  made  his 
way  at  once  to  the  spring.  When  he  saw  it,  he  was 
again  shocked.  They  had  allowed  it  to  fill  with  leaves 
and  dirt ! 

Overcome  by  the  memories  of  the  past,  he  flung 
himself  down  on  the  cool  and  shadowy  bank,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  bitter-sweet  reveries  of  a  man  returning 
to  his  boyhood's  home.  He  was  filled  somehow  with 
a  strange  and  powerful  feeling  of  the  passage  of  time ; 
with  a  vague  feeling  of  the  mystery  and  elusiveness  of 
human  life.  The  leaves  whispered  it  overhead,  the 
birds  sang  it  in  chorus  with  the  insects,  and  far  above, 
in  the  measureless  spaces  of  sky,  the  hawk  told  it  in 
the  silence  and  majesty  of  his  flight  from  cloud  to 
cloud. 

It  was  a  feeling  hardly  to  be  expressed  in  words  — 
one  of  those  emotions  whose  springs  lie  far  back  in 
the  brain.  He  lay  so  still  the  chipmunks  came  curi 
ously  up  to  his  very  feet,  only  to  scurry  away  when  he 
stirred  like  a  sleeper  in  pain. 

He  had  cut  himself  off  entirely  from  the  life  at  The 
Corners.  He  had  sent  money  home  to  John,  but  had 
concealed  his  own  address  carefully.  The  enormity  of 
his  folly  now  came  back  to  him,  racking  him  till  he 
groaned. 

He  heard  the  patter  of  feet  and  half-mumbled  mono- 


40  Main -Travelled  Roads 

logue  of  a  running  child.  He  roused  up  and  faced  a 
small  boy,  who  started  back  in  terror  like  a  wild  fawn. 
He  was  deeply  surprised  to  find  a  man  there,  where 
only  boys  and  squirrels  now  came.  He  stuck  his  fist 
in  his  eye,  and  was  backing  away  when  Will  spoke. 

"  Hold  on,  sonny !  Nobody's  hit  you.  Come,  I 
ain't  goin'  to  eat  yeh."  He  took  a  bit  of  money  from 
his  pocket.  "  Come  here  and  tell  me  your  name.  I 
want  to  talk  with  you." 

The  boy  crept  upon  the  dime. 

Will  smiled.  u  You  ought  to  be  a  Kinney.  What 
is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Tomath  Dickinthon  Kinney.  I'm  thix  and  a  half. 
I've  got  a  colt,"  lisped  the  youngster,  breathlessly,  as  he 
crept  toward  the  money. 

"  Oh,  you  are,  eh  ?  Well,  now.  are  you  Tom's  boy, 
or  Ed's  ?  " 

"  Tomth's  boy.     Uncle  Ed  heth  got  a  little  —  " 

"  Ed  got  a  boy  ?  " 

"Yeth,  thir  —  a  lil  baby.  Aunt  Agg  letth  me  hold 
'im." 

"  Agg  !  Is  that  her  name  ?  " 

"  Tha'th  what  Uncle  Ed  callth  her." 

The  man's  head  fell,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he 
asked  his  next  question. 

"  How  is  she  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Purty  well,"  piped  the  boy,  with  a  prolongation  of 
the  last  words  into  a  kind  of  chirp.  "She'th  been  thick, 
though,"  he  added. 

"  Been  sick  ?  How  long  ?  " 


A  Branch  Road  41 

"  Oh,  a  long  time.  But  she  ain't  thick  abed ;  she'th 
awful  poor,  though.  Gran'pa  thayth  she'th  poor  ath  a 
rake." 

"  Oh,  he  does,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yeth,  thir.     Uncle  Ed  he  jawth  her,  then  she  crieth." 

Will's  anger  and  remorse  broke  out  in  a  groaning 
curse.  "  O  my  God  !  I  see  it  all.  That  great  lunkin 
houn'  has  made  life  a  hell  for  her."  Then  that  letter 
came  back  to  his  mind  —  he  had  never  been  able  to  put 
it  out  of  his  mind — he  never  would  till  he  saw  her  and 
asked  her  pardon. 

"  Here,  my  boy,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some  more. 
Where  does  your  Aunt  Agnes  live  ?  " 

u  At  gran'pa'th.  You  know  where  my  gran'pa 
livth  ? " 

"  Well,  you  do.  Now  I  want  you  to  take  this  letter 
to  her.  Give  it  to  her."  He  wrote  a  little  note  and 
folded  it.  "  Now  dust  out  o'  here." 

The  boy  slipped  away  through  the  trees  like  a  rabbit ; 
his  little  brown  feet  hardly  rustled.  He  was  like  some 
little  wood-animal.  Left  alone,  the  man  fell  back  into 
a  revery  which  lasted  till  the  shadows  fell  on  the  thick 
little  grove  around  the  spring.  He  rose  at  last,  and  tak 
ing  his  stick  in  hand,  walked  out  to  the  wood  again  and 
stood  there  gazing  at  the  sky.  He  seemed  loath  to  go 
farther.  The  sky  was  full  of  flame-colored  clouds  float- 
ing  in  a  yellow-green  sea,  where  bars  of  faint  pink 
streamed  broadly  away. 

As  he  stood  there,  feeling  the  wind  lift  his  hair,  listen 
ing  to  the  crickets'  ever-present  crying,  and  facing  the 


42  Main -Travelled  Roads 

majesty  of  space,  a  strange  sadness  and  despair  came  into 
his  eyes. 

Drawing  a  quick  breath,  he  leaped  the  fence  and  was 
about  going  on  up  the  road,  when  he  heard,  at  a  little 
distance,  the  sound  of  a  drove  of  cattle  approaching,  and 
he  stood  aside  to  allow  them  to  pass.  They  snuffed  and 
shied  at  the  silent  figure  by  the  fence,  and  hurried  by 
with  snapping  heels — a  peculiar  sound  that  made  Will 
smile  with  pleasure. 

An  old  man  was  driving  the  cows,  crying  out : 

"  St  —  %,  there  !       Go  on    there  !     Whay,  boss  !  " 

Will  knew  that  hard-featured,  wiry  old  man,  now 
entering  his  second  childhood  and  beginning  to  limp 
painfully.  He  had  his  hands  full  of  hard  clods  which  he 
threw  impatiently  at  the  lumbering  animals. 

"  Good-evening,  uncle  !  " 

"  I  ain't  y'r  uncle,  young  man." 

His  dim  eyes  did  not  recognize  the  boy  he  had  chased 
out  of  his  plum  patch  years  before. 

"  I  don't  know  yeh,  neither,"  he  added. 

"  Oh,  you  will,  later  on.  I'm  from  the  East.  I'm  a 
sort  of  a  relative  to  John  Hannan." 

"  I  want  'o  know  if  y'  be !  "  the  old  man  exclaimed, 
peering  closer. 

"  Yes.  I'm  just  up  from  Rock  River.  John's  har 
vesting,  I  s'pose  ? " 

"Yus." 

"  Where's  the  youngest  one  —  Will  ?  " 

"  William  ?  Oh  !  he's  a  bad  aig  —  he  lit  out  Pr  the 
West  somewhere.  He  was  a  hard  boy.  He  stole  a 


A  Branch  Road  43 

hatful  o'  my  plums  once.  He  left  home  kind  o'  sudden. 
He !  he !  I  s'pose  he  was  purty  well  cut  up  jest  about 
them  days." 

"How's  that?" 

The  old  man  chuckled. 

"  Well,  y'  see,  they  was  both  courtin'  Agnes  then,  an* 
my  son  cut  William  out.  Then  William  he  lit  out  f'r 
the  West,  Arizony,  'r  California,  'r  somewhere  out  West. 
Never  been  back  sence." 

"  Ain't,  heh?" 

"  No.  But  they  say  he's  makin'  a  terrible  lot  o' 
money,"  the  old  man  said  in  a  hushed  voice.  "  But  the 
way  he  makes  it  is  awful  scaly.  I  tell  my  wife  if  I 
had  a  son  like  that  an'  he'd  send  me  home  a  bushel- 
basket  o'  money,  earnt  like  that,  I  wouldn't  touch  a 
finger  to  it  —  no  sir  !  " 

"  You  would'nt  ?     Why  ?  " 

"'Cause  it  ain't  right.  It  ain't  made  right  noway, 
you — 

"  But  how  is  it  made  ?     What's  the  feller's  trade  ?  " 

"  He's  a  gambler  —  that's  his  trade  !  He  plays  cards, 
and  every  cent  is  bloody.  I  wouldn't  touch  such  money 
nohow  you  could  fix  it." 

"  Wouldn't,  heh  ?  "  The  young  man  straightened  up, 
"Well,  look-a-here,  old  man:  did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
man  foreclosing  a  mortgage  on  a  widow  and  two  boys, 
getting  a  farm  f  r  one  quarter  what  it  was  really  worth  ? 
You  damned  old  hypocrite  !  I  know  all  about  you  and 
your  whole  tribe  —  you  old  blood-sucker  !  " 

The  old  man's  jaw  fell ;  he  began  to  back  away. 


44  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Your  neighbors  tell  some  good  stories  about  ymi. 
Now  skip  along  after  those  cows,  or  I'll  tickle  your  old 
legs  for  you  !  " 

The  old  man,  appalled  and  dazed  at  this  sudden  change 
of  manner,  backed  away,  and  at  last  turned  and  racked  off 
up  the  road,  looking  back  with  a  wild  face,  at  which  the 
young  man  laughed  remorselessly. 

"  The  doggoned  old  skeesucks  !  "  Will  soliloquized 
>s  ho  walked  up  the  road.  "So  that's  the  kind  of  a 
character  he's  been  r^ivin'  me  !  " 

-c  Hullo  !  A  whippoorwill.  Takes  a  man  back  into 
..-hildhood  —  No,  dont  '•whip  poor  Will*;  he's  got  all  he 
:an  bear  now." 

He  came  at  last  to  .Ae  little  farm  Dingman  had  owned, 
.nd  ho  stopped  in  sorrowful  surprise.  The  barn  had 
been  moved  away,  the  garden  ploughed  up,  and  the  house, 
turned  into  a  granary,  stood  with  boards  nailed  across  its 
dusty,  cobwebbed  windows.  The  tears  started  into  the 
man's  eyes ;  he  stood  staring  at  it  silently. 

In  the  face  of  this  house  the  seven  years  that  he  had 
last  lived  stretched  away  into  a  wild  waste  of  time.  It 
stood  as  a  symbol  of  his  wasted,  ruined  life.  It  was 
personal,  intimately  personal,  this  decay  of  her  home. 

All  that  last  scene  came  back  to  him ;  the  booming 
roar  of  the  threshing-machine,  the  cheery  whistle  of  the 
driver,  the  loud,  merry  shouts  of  the  men.  Fie  remem 
bered  how  warmly  the  lamp-light  streamed  out  of  that 
door  as  he  turned  away  tired,  hungry,  sullen  with  rage 
and  jealousy.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  had  the  courage  of  a 
man  ! 


A  Branch  Road  45 

Then  he  thought  of  the  boy's  words.  She  was  sick, 
Ed  abused  her.  She  had  met  her  punishment.  A  hun 
dred  times  he  had  been  over  the  whole  scene.  A  thou 
sand  times  he  had  seen  her  at  the  pump  smiling  at  Ed 
Kinney,  the  sun  lighting  her  hair ;  and  he  never  thought 
of  that  without  hardening. 

At  this  very  gate  he  had  driven  up  that  last  forenoon ; 
to  find  that  she  had  gone  with  Ed.  He  had  lived  that 
sickening,  depressing  moment  over  many  times,  but  not 
times  enough  to  keep  down  the  bitter  passion  he  had 
felt  then,  and  felt  now  as  he  went  over  it  in  detail. 

He  was  so  happy  and  confident  that  morning,  so 
perfectly  certain  that  all  would  be  made  right  by  a  kiss 
and  a  cheery  jest.  And  now !  Here  he  stood  sick  with 
despair  and  doubt  of  all  the  world.  He  turned  away 
from  the  desolate  homestead  and  walked  on. 

"But  I'll  see  her  —  just  once  more.     And  then  —  " 

And  again  the  mighty  significance,  responsibility  of 
life,  fell  upon  him.  He  felt,  as  young  people  seldom  do, 
the  irrevocableness  of  living,  the  determinate,  unalter 
able  character  of  living.  He  determined  to  begin  to 
live  in  some  new  way — just  how  he  could  not  say. 

IV 

Old  man  Kinney  and  his  wife  were  getting  their 
Sunday-school  lessons  with  much  bickering,  when  Will 
drove  up  the  next  day  to  the  dilapidated  gate  and  hitched 
his  team  to  a  leaning-post  under  the  oaks.  Will  saw 
the  old  man's  head  at  the  open  window,  but  no  one  else, 


46  Main -Travelled  Roads 

though  he  looked  eagerly  for  Agnes  as  he  walked  up  the 
familiar  path.  There  stood  the  great  oak  under  whose 
shade  he  had  grown  to  be  a  man.  How  close  the  great 
tree  seemed  to  stand  to  his  heart,  someway  !  As  the 
wind  stirred  in  the  leaves,  it  was  like  a  rustle  of  greeting. 

In  that  old  house  they  had  all  lived,  and  his  mother 
had  toiled  for  thirty  years.  A  sort  of  prison  after  all. 
There  they  were  all  born,  and  there  his  father  and  his 
little  sister  had  died.  And  then  it  passed  into  old 
Kinney's  hands. 

Walking  along  up  the  path  he  felt  a  serious  weakness 
in  his  limbs,  and  he  made  a  pretence  of  stopping  to  look 
at  a  flower-bed  containing  nothing  but  weeds.  After 
seven  years  of  separation  he  was  about  to  face  once 
more  the  woman  whose  life  came  so  near  being  a  part 
of  his  —  Agnes,  now  a  wife  and  a  mother. 

How  would  she  look  ?  Would  her  face  have  that 
old-time  peachy  bloom,  her  mouth  that  peculiar  beauti 
ful  curve  ?  She  was  large  and  fair,  he  recalled,  hair 
yellow  and  shining,  eyes  blue —  , 

He  roused  himself.  This  was  nonsense !  He  was 
trembling.  He  composed  himself  by  looking  around 
again. 

"  The  old  scoundrel  has  let  the  weeds  choke  out  the 
flowers  and  surround  the  bee-hives.  Old  man  Kinney 
never  believed  in  anything  but  a  petty  utility." 

Will  set  his  teeth,  and  marched  up  to  the  door  and 
struck  it  like  a  man  delivering  a  challenge.  Kinney 
opened  the  door,  and  started  back  in  fear  when  he  saw 
who  it  was. 


A  Branch  Road  47 

"  How  de  do  ?  How  de  do  ?  "  said  Will,  walking 
in,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  woman  seated  beyond,  a  child  in 
her  lap. 

Agnes  rose,  without  a  word;  a  fawn-like,  startled 
widening  of  the  eyes,  her  breath  coming  quick,  and  her 
face  flushing.  They  couldn't  speak;  they  only  looked 
at  each  other  an  instant,  then  Will  shivered,  passed  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  and'  sat  down. 

There  was  no  one  there  but  the  old  people,  who  were 
looking  at  him  in  bewilderment.  They  did  not  notice 
any  confusion  in  Agnes's  face<,  She  recovered  first. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  Wnl,"  she  said,  rising 
and  putting  the  sleeping  child  down  in  a  neighboring 
room.  As  she  gave  him  her  hand,  he  said  : 

"  I'm  glad  to  get  back,  Agnes.  I  hadn't  ought  to 
have  gone."  Then  he  turned  to  the  old  people : 

"  I'm  Will  Hannan.  You  needn't  be  scared,  Daddy ; 
I  was  jokin'  last  night." 

u  Dew  tell !  I  want  'o  know  !  "  exclaimed  Granny. 
"Wai,  I  never!  An3  you're  my  little  Willy  boy  who 
ust  'o  be  in  my  class?  Well!  Well!  W'y,  pa, 
ain't  he  growed  tall !  Grew  handsome  tew.  I  ust  'o 
think  he  was  a  dretful  humly  boy ;  but  my  sakes,  that 
mustache  —  " 

"  Wai,  he  gave  me  a  turrlble  scare  last  night.  My 
land  !  scared  me  out  of  a  year's  growth,"  cackled  the 
old  man. 

This  gave  them  all  a  chance  to  laugh,  and  the  air  was 
cleared.  It  gave  Agnes  time  to  recover  herself,  and  to 
be  nble  to  meet  Will's  eyes.  Will  himself  was  power- 


48  Main -Travelled  Roads 

fully  moved ;  his  throat  swelled  and  tears  came  to  his 
eyes  every  time  he  looked  at  her. 

v  She  was  worn  and  wasted  incredibly.  The  blue  of 
her  eyes  seemed  dimmed  and  faded  by  weeping,  and  the 
old-time  scarlet  of  her  lips  had  been  washed  away.  The 
sinews  of  her  neck  showed  painfully  when  she  turned 
her  head,  and  her  trembling  hands  were  worn,  discolored, 
and  lumpy  at  the  joints. 

Poor  girl !  She  knew  she  was  under  scrutiny,  and 
her  eyes  felt  hot  and  restless.  She  wished  to  run  away 
and  cry,  but  she  dared  not.  She  stayed,  while  Will  be 
gan  to  tell  her  of  his  life  and  to  ask  questions  about  old 
friends. 

The  old  people  took  it  up  and  relieved  her  of  any  share 
in  it;  and  Will,  seeing  that  she  was  suffering,  told  some 
funny  stories  which  made  the  old  people  cackle  in  spite 
of  themselves. 

But  it  was  forced  merriment  on  Will's  part.  Once 
or  twice  Agnes  smiled,  with  just  a  little  flash  of  the 
old-time  sunny  temper.  But  there  was  no  dimple  in  the 
cheek  now,  and  the  smile  had  more  suggestion  of  an  in 
valid  —  or  even  a  skeleton.  He  was  almost  ready  to 
take  her  in  his  arms  and  weep,  her  face  appealed  so  piti 
fully  to  him. 

"  It's  most  time  Pr  Ed  to  be  gittin'  back,  ain't  itv  pa  ?  " 

"  Sh'd  say  't,  was  !  He  jest  went  over  to  Hobkirk's 
to  trade  horses.  It's  dretful  tryin'  to  me  to  have  him  go 
off  tradin'  horses  on  Sunday.  Seems  if  he  might  wait 
till  a  rainy  day,  'r  do  it  evenin's.  I  never  did  believe  in 
horse-tradin'  anyhow." 


A  Branch  Road  49 

"  Have  y'  come  back  to  stay,  Willie  ?  "  asked  the  old 
lady. 

"  Well  —  it's  hard  tellin',"  answered  Will,  looking  at 
Agnes. 

"  Well,  Agnes,  ain't  you  goin'  to  git  no  dinner  ?  I'm 
'bout  ready  Pr  dinner.  We  must  git  to  church  early  to 
day.  Elder  Wheat  is  goin'  to  preach,  an'  they'll  be  a 
crowd.  He's  goin'  to  hold  communion." 

"  You'll  stay  to  dinner,  Will  ?  "  asked  Agnes. 

"  Yes  —  if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  do  wish  it." 

"  Thank  you ;  I  want  to  have  a  good  visit  with  you. 
I  don't  know  when  I'll  see  you  again." 

As  she  moved  about,  getting  dinner  on  the  table,  Will 
sat  with  gloomy  face,  listening  to  the  "  clack "  of  the 
old  man.  The  room  was  a  poor  little  sitting  room,  with 
furniture  worn  and  shapeless ;  hardly  a  touch  of  pleas 
ant  color,  save  here  and  there  a  little  bit  of  Agnes's 
handiwork.  The  lounge,  covered  with  calico,  was  rick 
ety  ;  the  rocking-chair  matched  it,  and  the  carpet  of  rags 
was  patched  and  darned  with  twine  in  twenty  places. 
Everywhere  was  the  influence  of  the  Kinneys.  The 
furniture  looked  like  them,  in  fact. 

Agnes  was  outwardly  calm,  but  her  real  distraction 
did  not  escape  Mrs.  Kinney's  hawk-like  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  declare  if  you  hain't  put  the  butter  on  in 
one  o*  my  blue  chainy  saucers  ?  Now  you  know  I  don't 
allow  that  saucer  to  be  took  down  by  nobody.  I  don't 
see  what's  got  into  yeh  !  Anybody'd  s'pose  you  never 
see  any  comp'ny  b'fore  —  wouldn't  they,  pa  ?  " 


50  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"Sh'd  say  th*  would,"  said  pa,  stopping  short  in  a 
long  story  about  Ed.  "  Seems  if  we  couldn't  keep  any 
thing  in  this  house  sep'rit  from  the  rest.  Ed  he  uses  my 
curry-comb  —  " 

He  launched  out  a  long  list  of  grievances,  to  which 
Will  shut  his  ears  as  completely  as  possible,  and  was 
thinking  how  to  stop  him,  when  there  came  a  sudden 
crash.  Agnes  had  dropped  a  plate. 

"  Good  land  o'  Goshen  !  "  screamed  Granny.  "  If 
you  ain't  the  worst  I  ever  see.  I'll  bet  that's  my  grape 
vine  plate.  If  it  is — Well,  of  all  the  mercies,  it  ain't. 
But  it  might  'a'  ben.  I  never  see  your  beat  —  never ! 
That's  the  third  plate  since  I  came  to  live  here." 

"  Oh,  look-a-here,  Granny,"  said  Will,  desperately, 
"don't  make  so  much  fuss  about  the  plate.  What's  it 
worth,  anyway  ?  Here's  a  dollar." 

Agnes  cried  quickly: 

"  Oh,  don't  do  that,  Will !  It  ain't  her  plate.  It's 
my  plate,  and  I  can  break  every  plate  in  the  house  if  I 
want  to,"  she  cried  defiantly. 

"  Course  you  can,"  Will  agreed. 

"  Wai,  she  can't !  Not  while  Pm  around,"  put  in 
Daddy.  "  I've  helped  to  pay  Pr  them  plates,  if  she  does 
call  'em  her'n  — " 

"  What  the  devul  is  all  this  row  about  ?  Agg,  can't 
you  get  along  without  stirring  up  the  old  folks  every  time 
I'm  out  o'  the  house  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  Ed,  now  a  tall  and  slouchily  dressed 
man  of  thirty-two  or  three ;  his  face  still  handsome  in  a 
certain  dark,  cleanly-cut  style,  but  he  wore  a  surlv  look 


A  Branch  Road  51 

as  he  lounged  in  with  insolent  swagger,  clothed  in 
greasy  overalls  and  a  hickory  shirt. 

"  Hello,  Will !  I  heard  you'd  got  home.  John  told 
me  as  I  came  along." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Ed  slouched  down  on  the 
lounge.  Will  could  have  kicked  him  for  laying  the 
blame  of  the  dispute  upon  Agnes ;  it  showed  him  in  a 
flash  just  how  he  treated  her.  He  disdained  to  quarrel  9 
he  simply  silenced  and  dominated  her. 

Will  asked  a  few  questions  about  crops,  with  such 
grace  as  he  could  show,  and  Ed,  with  keen  eyes  fixed  on 
Will's  face,  talked  easily  and  stridently. 

"  Dinner  ready  ?  "  he  asked  of  Agnes.  "  Where's 
Pete  ?  " 

"  He's  asleep." 

"  All  right.  Let  'im  sleep.  Well,  let's  go  out  an' 
set  up.  Come,  Dad,  sling  away  that  Bible  and  come  to 
grub.  Mother,  what  the  devul  are  you  snifflin'  at  ? 
Say,  now,  look  here  !  If  I  hear  any  more  about  this 
row,  I'll  simply  let  you  walk  down  to  meetin'.  Come, 
Will,  set  up." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  little  kitchen  where  the  din 
ner  was  set. 

"  What  was  the  row  about  ?  Hain't  been  breakin* 
some  dish,  Agg  ?  " 

u  Yes,  she  has,"  broke  in  the  old  lady. 

"  One  o'  the  blue  ones  ?  "  winked  Ed. 

"  No,  thank  goodness,  it  was  a  white  one." 

"Well,  now,  I'll  git  into  that  dod-gasted  cubberd 
some  day  an'  break  the  whole  eternal  outfit.  I  ain't 


52  Main -Travelled  Roads 

goin'  to  have  this  damned  jawin'  goin'  on,"  he  ended, 
brutally  unconscious  of  his  own  "jawin'." 

After  this  the  dinner  proceeded  in  comparative  silence, 
Agnes  sobbing  under  breath.  The  room  was  small  and 
very  hot ;  the  table  was  warped  so  badly  that  the  dishes 
had  a  tendency  to  slide  to  the  centre;  the  walls  were 
bare  plaster,  grayed  with  time ;  the  food  was  poor  and 
scant,  and  the  flies  absolutely  swarmed  upon  everything, 
like  bees.  Otherwise  the  room  was  clean  and  orderly. 

u  They  say  you've  made  a  pile  o'  money  out  West, 
Bill.  I'm  glad  of  it.  We  fellers  back  here  don't  make 
anything.  It's  a  dam  tight  squeeze.  Agg,  it  seems  to 
me  the  flies  are  devilish  thick  to-day.  Can't  you  drive 
'em  out  ? " 

Agnes  felt  that  she  must  vindicate  herself  a  little. 

"  I  do  drive  'em  out,  but  they  come  right  in  again. 
The  screen-door  is  broken  and  they  come  right  in." 

"  I  told  Dad  to  fix  that  door." 

"  But  he  won't  do  it  for  me." 

Ed  rested  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  fixed  his  bright 
black  eyes  on  his  father. 

"  Say,  what  d'  you  mean  by  actin*  like  a  mule  ?  I 
swear  I'll  trade  you  off  Pr  a  yaller  dog.  What  do  7 
keep  you  round  here  for  anyway  —  to  look  purty  ? " 

"  I  guess  I've  as  good  a  right  here  as  you  have,  Ed 
Kinney." 

"  Oh,  go  soak  y'r  head,  old  man.  If  you  don't  'tend 
out  here  a  little  better,  down  goes  your  meat-house  !  I 
won't  drive  you  down  to  meetin'  till  you  promise  to  fix 
that  door.  Hear  me  !  " 


A  Branch  Road  53 

Daddy  began  to  snivel.  Agnes  could  not  look  up  for 
shame.  Will  felt  sick.  Ed  laughed. 

"  I  c'n  bring  the  old  man  to  terms  that  way ;  he  can't 
walk  very  well  late  years,  an'  he  can't  drive  my  colt. 
You  know  what  a  cuss  I  used  to  be  about  fast  nags  ? 
Well,  I'm  just  the  same.  Hobkirk's  got  a  colt  I  want. 
Say,  that  reminds  me :  your  team's  out  there  by  the 
fence.  I  forgot.  I'll  go  out  and  put  'em  up." 

"  No,  never  mind  ;  I  can't  stay  but  a  few  minutes." 

"  Goin'  to  be  round  the  country  long  ?  " 

"  A  week  —  maybe." 

Agnes  looked  up  a  moment,  and  then  let  her  eyes 
fall. 

«  Goin'  back  West,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

u  No.     May  go  East,  to  Europe,  mebbe." 

"  The  devul  y'  say  !  You  must  'a'  made  a  ten-strike 
out  West." 

u  They  say  it  didn't  come  lawful,"  piped  Daddy,  over 
his  blackberries  and  milk. 

"  Oh,  you  shet  up,  who  wants  your  put-in  ?  Don't 
work  in  any  o'  your  Bible  on  us." 

Daddy  rose  to  go  into  the  other  room. 

"  Hold  on,  old  man.     You  goin'  to  fix  that  door  ?  " 

u  Course  I  be,"  quavered  he. 

"Well  see  't  y'  do,  that's  all.  Now  get  on  y'r  duds, 
an'  Fll  go  an'  hitch  up."  He  rose  from  the  table. 
u  Don't  keep  me  waiting." 

He  went  out  unceremoniously,  and  Agnes  was  alone 
with  Will. 

"  Do  you  go  to  church  ?  "  he  asked.     She  shook  her 


<|4  Main -Travelled  Roads 

head.  "  No,  I  don't  go  anywhere  now.  I  have  too 
much  to  do ;  I  haven't  strength  left.  And  I'm  not  fit 
anyway." 

"  Agnes,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you  ;  not  now 
—  after  they're  gone." 

He  went  into  the  other  room,  leaving  her  to  wash  the 
dinner-thing^.  She  worked  on  in  a  curious,  almost 
dazed  way,  a  dream  of  something  sweet  and  irrevocable 
in  her  eyes.  Will  represented  so  much  to  her.  His 
voice  brought  up  times  and  places  that  thrilled  her  like 
song.  He  was  associated  with  all  that  was  sweetest 
and  most  care-free  and  most  girlish  in  her  life. 

Ever  since  the  boy  had  handed  her  that  note  she  had 
been  re-living  those  days.  In  the  midst  of  her  drudgery 
she  stopped  to  dream  —  to  let  some  picture  come  back 
into  her  mind.  She  was  a  student  again  at  the  Semi 
nary,  and  stood  in  the  recitation-room  with  suffocating 
beat  of  the  heart ;  Will  was  waiting  outside  —  waiting 
in  a  tremor  like  her  own,  to  walk  home  with  her  under 
the  maples. 

Then  she  remembered  the  painfully  sweet  mixture  of 
pride  and  fear  with  which  she  walked  up  the  aisle  of  the 
little  church  behind  him.  Her  pretty  new  gown  rustled, 
the  dim  light  of  the  church  had  something  like  romance 
in  it,  and  he  was  so  strong  and  handsome.  Her  heart 
went  out  in  a  great  silent  cry  to  God  — 

"  Oh,  let  me  be  a  girl  again  !  " 

She  did  not  look  forward  to  happiness.  She  hadn't 
power  to  look  forward  at  all. 

As  she  worked*  she  heard  the  high,  shrill  voices  of 


A  Branch  Road  55 

the  old  people  as  they  bustled  about  and  nagged  at  each 
other. 

"  Ma,  where's  my  specticles  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  seen  y'r  specticles." 

"  You  have,  too." 

"  I  ain't  neither." 

"  You  had  'em  this  forenoon." 

"Didn't  no  such  thing.  Them  was  my  own  brass- 
bowed  ones.  You  had  your'n  jest  'fore  goin'  to  dinner. 
If  you'd  put  'em  into  a  proper  place  you'd  find  'em 
again." 

"  I  want  'o  know  if  I  would,"  the  old  man  snorted. 

"  Wai,  you'd  orter  know." 

"  Oh,  you're  awful  smart,  ain't  yeh  ?  You  never 
have  no  trouble,  and  use  mine  —  do  yeh  ?  —  an'  lose 
'em  so  't  I  can't  —  " 

"  And  if  this  is  the  thing  that  goes  on  when  I'm  here 
it  must  be  hell  when  visitors  are  gone,"  thought  Will. 

"  Willy,  ain't  you  goin'  to  meetin'  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to-day.  I  want  to  visit  a  little  with  Agnes, 
then  I've  got  to  drive  back  to  John's." 

"Wai,  we  must  be  goin'.  Don't  you  leave  them 
dishes  f  r  me  to  wash,"  she  screamed  at  Agnes  as  she 
went  out  the  door.  "  An'  if  we  don't  git  home  by  five, 
them  caaves  orter  be  fed." 

As  Agnes  stood   at   the   door  to   watch   them   drivt 

D 

away,  Will  studied  her,  a  smothering  ache  in  his  heart 
as  he  saw  how  thin  and  bent  and  weary  she  was.  In 
his  soul  he  felt  that  she  was  a  dying  woman  unless  she 
had  rest  and  tender  care. 


56  Main -Travelled  Roads 

As  she  turned,  she  saw  something  in  his  face  —  a 
pity  and  an  agony  of  self-accusation  —  that  made  her 
weak  and  white.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  putting  her 
hand  on  her  chest,  as  if  she  felt  a  failing  of  breath. 
Then  the  blood  came  back  to  her  face  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

"Don't  —  don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  she  said  in 
a  whisper.  His  pity  hurt  her. 

At  sight  of  her  sitting  there  pathetic,  abashed,  bewil 
dered,  like  some  gentle  animal,  Will's  throat  contracted 
so  that  he  could  not  speak.  His  voice  came  at  last  in 
one  terrific  cry  — 

"  Oh,  Agnes,  for  God's  sake  forgive  me ! "  He 
knelt  by  her  side  and  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders 
and  kissed  her  bowed  head.  A  curious  numbness  in 
volved  his  whole  body ;  his  voice  was  husky,  the  tears 
burned  in  his  eyes.  His  whole  soul  and  body  ached 
with  his  pity  and  his  remorseful,  self-accusing  wrath. 

"  It  was  all  my  fault.  Lay  it  all  to  me.  ...  I  am 
the  one  to  bear  it.  ...  Oh,  I've  dreamed  a  thousand 
times  of  sayin'  this  to  you,  Aggie  !  I  thought  if  I  could 
only  see  you  again  and  ask  your  forgiveness,  I'd  — " 
He  ground  his  teeth  together  in  his  assault  upon  him 
self.  "  I  threw  my  life  away  an'  killed  you  —  that's 
what  I  did  !  " 

He  rose,  and  raged  up  and  down  the  room  till  he  had 
mastered  himself. 

"  What  did  you  think  I  meant  that  day  of  the  thrash 
ing  ?  "  he  said,  turning  suddenly.  He  spoke  of  it  as  if 
it  were  but  a  month  or  two  past. 


A  Branch  Road  57 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  in  a  slow  way. 
She  seemed  to  be  remembering.  The  tears  lay  on  her 
hollow  cheeks. 

"  I  thought  you  was  ashamed  of  me.     I  didn't  know 


He  uttered  a  snarl  of  self-disgust. 

"  You  couldn't  know.  Nobody  could  tell  what  I 
meant.  But  v/hy  didn't  you  write  ?  I  was  ready  to 
come  back.  I  only  wanted  an  excuse  —  only  a  line." 

"  How  could  I,  Will  —  after  your  letter  ?  " 

He  groaned,  and  turned  away. 

"  And  Will,  I  —  I  got  mad  too.     I  couldn't  write." 

"  Oh,  that  letter  —  I  can  see  every  line  of  it  !  F'r 
God's  sake,  don't  think  of  it  again  !  But  I  didn't  think, 
even  when  I  wrote  that  letter,  that  I'd  find  you  where 
you  are.  I  didn't  think.  I  hoped,  anyhow,  Ed  Kinney 
wouldn't  —  " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  startled  look  in  her  great 
eyes. 

"Don't  talk  about  him  —  it  ain't  right.  I  mean  it 
don't  do  any  good.  What  could  I  do,  after  father  died  ? 
Mother  and  I.  Besides,  I  waited  three  years  to  hear 
from  you,  Will." 

He  gave  a  strange,  choking  cry.  It  burst  from  his 
throat  —  that  terrible  thing,  a  man's  sob  of  agony. 
She  went  on,  curiously  calm  now. 

u  Ed  was  good  to  me  ;  and  he  offered  a  home,  any 
way,  for  mother  —  " 

u  And  all  the  time  I  was  waiting  for  some  line  to 
break  down  my  cussed  pride,  so  I  could  write  to  you 


58  Main -Travelled  Roads 

and  explain.  But  you  did  go  with  Ed  to  the  fair,"  he 
ended  suddenly,  seeking  a  morsel  of  justification  foi 
himself. 

"  Yes.  But  I  waited  an'  waited ;  and  I  thought  you 
was  mad  at  me,  so  when  they  came  I  —  no,  I  didn't 
really  go  with  Ed.  There  was  a  wagon-load  of  them." 

"  But  I  started,"  he  explained,  "  but  the  wheel  came 
off.  I  didn't  send  word  because  I  thought  you'd  feel 
sure  I'd  come.  If  you'd  only  trusted  me  a  little  more 
—  No  !  It  was  all  my  fault.  I  acted  like  a  crazy  fool. 
I  didn't  stop  to  reason  about  anything." 

They  sat  in  silence  after  these  explanations.  The 
sound  of  the  snapping  wings  of  the  grasshoppers  came 
through  the  windows,  and  a  locust  high  in  a  poplar  sent 
down  his  ringing  whir. 

"  It  can't  be  helped  now,  Will,"  Agnes  said  at  last, 
her  voice  full  of  the  woman's  resignation.  u  We've 
got  to  bear  it." 

Will  straightened  up.  u  Bear  it  ?  "  He  paused. 
"  Yes,  I  s'pose  so.  If  you  hadn't  married  Ed  Kinney  ! 
Anybody  but  him.  How  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  wearily  brushing 
her  hair  back  from  her  eyes.  "  It  seemed  best  when 
I  did  it  —  and  it  can't  be  helped  now."  There  was 
infinite,  dull  despair  and  resignation  in  her  voice. 

Will  went  over  to  the  window.  He  thought  how 
bright  and  handsome  Ed  used  to  be.  "  After  all,  it's  no 
wonder  you  married  him.  Life  pushes  us  into  such 
things."  Suddenly  he  turned,  something  resolute  and 
imperious  in  his  eyes  and  voice. 


A  Branch   Road  59 

u  It  can  be  helped,  Aggie,"  he  said.  "  Now  just 
listen  to  me.  We've  made  an  awful  mistake.  We've 
lost  seven  years  o'  life,  but  that's  no  reason  why  we 
should  waste  the  rest  of  it.  Now  hold  on  ;  don't  inter 
rupt  me  just  yet.  I  come  back  thinking  just  as  much 
of  you  as  ever.  I'm  not  going  to  say  a  word  more 
about  Ed ;  let  the  past  stay  past.  I'm  going  to  talk 
about  the  future." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  daze  of  wonder  as  he  went  on. 

"  Now  I've  got  some  money,  I've  got  a  third  interest 
in  a  ranch,  and  I've  got  a  standing  offer  to  go  back  on 
the  Santa  Fee  road  as  conductor.  There  is  a  team 
standing  out  there.  I'd  like  to  make  another  trip  to 
Cedarville  —  with  you  —  " 

"Oh,  Will,  don't!"  she  cried;  "for  pity's  sake 
don't  talk  —  " 

u  Wait !  "  he  exclaimed,  imperiously.  u  Now  look  at 
it.  Here  you  are  in  hell !  Caged  up  with  two  old 
crows  picking  the  life  out  of  you.  They'll  kill  you  — 
I  can  see  it;  your  being  killed  by  inches.  You  can't  go 
anywhere,  you  can't  have  anything.  ,  Life  is  just  torture 
for  you  — " 

She  gave  a  little  moan  of  anguish  and  despair,  and 
turned  her  face  to  her  chair-back.  Her  shoulders  shook 
with  weeping,  but  she  listened.  He  went  to  her  and 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  chair-back. 

His  voice  trembled  and  broke.     "  There's  just   one 
way  to  get  out  of  this,  Agnes.     Come  with  me.      He 
don't  care  for  you ;  his  whole  idea  of  women  is   that  ^s 
they   are  created   for   his   pleasure   and  to  keep  house.       ^ 


60  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Your  whole  life  is  agony.  Come  !  Don't  cry.  There's 
a  chance  for  life  yet." 

She  didn't  speak,  but  her  sobs  were  less  violent ;  his 
voice  growing  stronger  reassured  her. 

"  I'm  going  East,  maybe  to  Europe ;  and  the  woman 
who  goes  with  me  will  have  nothing  to  do  but  get 
strong  and  well  again.  I've  made  you  suffer  so,  I  ought 
to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  making  you  happy.  Come ! 
My  wife  will  sit  with  me  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
and  see  the  moon  rise,  and  walk  with  me  by  the  sea, 
till  she  gets  strong  and  happy  again  —  till  the  dimples 
get  back  into  her  cheeks.  I  never  will  rest  till  I  see 
her  eyes  laugh  again." 

She  rose  flushed,  wild-eyed,  breathing  hard  with  the 
emotion  his  vibrant  voice  called  up,  but  she  could  not 
speak.  He  put  his  hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
she  sank  down  again.  And  he  went  on  with  his  appeal. 
There  was  something  hypnotic,  dominating,  in  his  voice 
and  eyes. 

On  his  part  there  was  no  passion  of  an  ignoble  sort, 
only  a  passion  of  pity  and  remorse,  and  a  sweet,  tender, 
reminiscent  love.  He  did  not  love  the  woman  before 
him  so  much  as  the  girl  whose  ghost  she  was — the 
woman  whose  promise  she  was.  He  held  himself  respon 
sible  for  it  all,  and  he  throbbed  with  desire  to  repair  the 
ravage  he  had  indirectly  caused.  There  was  nothing 
equivocal  in  his  position  —  nothing  to  disown.  How 
others  might  look  at  it,  he  did  not  consider,  and  did  not 
care.  His  impetuous  soul  was  carried  to  a  point  where 
nothing  came  in  to  mar  or  divert. 


A  Branch  Road  61 

"  And  then  after  you're  well,  after  our  trip,  we'll 
comeback — to  Houston,  or  somewhere  in  Texas,  and 
I'll  build  my  wife  a  house  that  will  make  her  eyes  shine. 
My  cattle  will  give  us  a  good  living,  and  she  can  have 
a  piano  and  books,  and  go  to  the  theatre  and  concerts. 
Come,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Then  she  heard  his  words  beneath  his  voice  somehow, 
and  they  produced  pictures  that  dazzled  her.  Luminous 
shadows  moved  before  her  eyes,  drifting  across  the  gray 
background  of  her  poor,  starved,  work-weary  life. 

As  his  voice  ceased  the  rosy  cloud  faded,  and  she 
realized  again  the  faded,  musty  little  room,  the  calico- 
covered  furniture,  and  looking  down  at  her  own  cheap 
and  ill-fitting  dress,  she  saw  her  ugly  hands  lying  there. 
Then  she  cried  out  with  a  gush  of  tears  : 

"  Oh,  Will,  I'm  so  old  and  homely  now,  I  ain't  fit  to 
go  with  you  now  !  Oh,  why  couldn't  we  have  married 
then?" 

She  was  seeing  herself  as  she  was  then,  and  so  was 
he  j  but  it  deepened  his  resolution.  How  beautiful  she 
used  to  be  !  He  seemed  to  see  her  there  as  if  she  stood 
4n  perpetual  sunlight,  with  a  warm  sheen  in  her  hair  and 
dimples  in  her  cheeks. 

She  saw  her  thin  red  wrists,  her  gaunt  and  knotted 
hands.  There  was  a  pitiful  droop  in  the  thin,  pale  lips, 
and  the  tears  fell  slowly  from  her  drooping  lashes.  He 
went  on  : 

"Well,  it's  no  use  to  cry  over  what  was.  We  must 
think  of  what  we're  going  to  do.  Don't  worry  about 
your  looks  ;  you'll  be  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  country 


62  Main -Travelled  Roads 

when  we  get  back.  Don't  wait,  Aggie ;  make  up  your 
mind." 

She  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 

u  What  will  people  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  he  flamed  out. 
"  They'd  say,  stay  here  and  be  killed  by  inches.  I  say 
you've  had  your  share  of  suffering.  They'd  say — the 
liberal  ones  —  stay  and  get  a  divorce  j  but  how  do  you 
know  we  can  get  one  after  you've  been  dragged  through 
the  mud  of  a  trial  ?  We  can  get  one  as  well  in  some 
other  state.  Why  should  you  be  worn  out  at  thirty  ? 
What  right  or  justice  is  there  in  making  you  bear  all 
your  life  the  consequences  of  our  —  my  schoolboy 
folly?" 

As  he  went  on  his  argument  rose  to  the  level  of 
Browning's  philosophy. 

"  We  can  make  this  experience  count  for  us  yet. 
But  we  mustn't  let  a  mistake  ruin  us  —  it  should  teach 
us.  What  right  has  any  one  to  keep  you  in  a  hole  ? 
God  don't  expect  a  toad  to  stay  in  a  stump  and  starve  if 
it  can  get  out.  He  don't  ask  the  snakes  to  suffer  as  you 
do." 

She  had  lost  the  threads  of  right  and  wrong  out  of  her 
hands.  She  was  lost  in  a  maze,  but  she  was  not  moved 
by  passion.  Flesh  had  ceased  to  stir  her ;  but  there  was 
vast  power  in  the  new  and  thrilling  words  her  deliverer 
spoke.  He  seemed  to  open  a  door  for  her,  and  through 
it  turrets  shone  and  great  ships  crossed  on  dim  blue 
seas. 

"  You  can't  live  here,  Aggie.     You'll  die  in  less  than 


A  Branch  Road  63 

five  years.  It  would  kill  me  to  see  you  die  here.  Come  ! 
It's  suicide." 

She  did  not  move,  save  the  convulsive  motion  of  her 
breath  and  the  nervous  action  of  her  fingers.  She  stared 
down  at  a  spot  in  the  carpet.  She  could  not  face  him. 

He  grew  insistent,  a  sterner  note  creeping  into  his  voice. 

"  If  I  leave  this  time  of  course  you  know  I'll  never 
come  back." 

Her  hoarse  breathing,  growing  quicker  each  moment, 
was  her  only  reply. 

"  I'm  done,"  he  said  with  a  note  of  angry  disappoint- 
ment.  He  did  not  give  her  up,  however.  u  I've  told 
you  what  I'd  do  for  you.  Now,  if  you  think  —  " 

"  Oh,  give  me  time  to  think,  Will !  "  she  cried  out, 
lifting  her  face. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No.  You  might  as  well 
decide  now.  It  won't  be  any  easier  to-morrow.  Come, 
one  minute  more  and  I  go  out  o'  that  door  —  unless 
He  crossed  the  room  slowly,  doubtful  himself  of 
his  desperate  last  measure.  "  My  hand  is  "on  the  knob. 
Shall  I  open  it  ?  " 

She  stopped  breathing ;  her  fingers  closed  convulsively 
on  the  chair.  As  he  opened  the  door  she  sprang 
up. 

"  Don't  go,  Will !  Don't  go,  please  don't !  I  need 
you  here  —  I  —  " 

"  That  ain't  the  question.  Are  you  going  with  me, 
Agnes  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes !  I  tried  to  speak  before.  I  trust  you, 
Will;  you're  —  " 


64  Main -Travel led  Roads 

He  flung  the  door  open  wide.  "  See  the  sunlight  out 
there  shining  on  that  field  o'  wheat  ?  That's  where  I'll 
take  you  —  out  into  the  sunshine.  You  shall  see  it 
shining  on  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Come,  get  on  your  hat ; 
don't  take  anything  more'n  you  actually  need.  Leave 
the  past  behind  you — " 

The  woman  turned  wildly  and  darted  into  the  little 
bedroom.  The  man  listened.  He  whistled  in  surprise 
almost  comical.  He  had  forgotten  the  baby.  He  could 
hear  the  mother  talking,  cooing. 

"  Mommie's  'ittle  pet !  She  wasn't  goin'  to  leave 
her  'ittle  man  —  no,  she  wasn't !  There,  there,  don't 
'e  cry.  Mommie  ain't  goin'  away  and  leave  him  — 
wicked  mommie  ain't  —  'ittle  treasure  !  " 

She  was  confused  again  j  and  when  she  reappeared 
at  the  door,  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  there  was  a 
wandering  look  on  her  face  pitiful  to  see.  She  tried  to 
speak,  tried  to  say,  "  Please  go,  Will." 

He  designedly  failed  to  understand  her  whisper.  He 
stepped  forward.  "  The  baby !  Sure  enough.  Why, 
certainly !  to  the  mother  belongs  the  child.  Blue  eyes, 
thank  heaven !  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  them  both.  She  obeyed  silently. 
There  was  something  irresistible  in  his  frank,  clear  eyes, 
his  sunny  smile,  his  strong  brown  hand.  He  slammed 
the  door  behind  them. 

"  That  closes  the  door  on  your  sufferings,"  he  said, 
smiling  down  at  her.  "  Good-by  to  it  all." 

The  baby  laughed  and  stretched  out  its  hands  toward 
the  light. 


A  Branch  Road  65 

tt  Boo,  boo  !  "  he  cried. 

"  What's  he  talking  about  ?  " 

She  smiled  in  perfect  trust  and  fearlessness,  seeing 
her  child's  face  beside  his  own.  "  He  says  it's 
beautiful." 

"  Oh,  he  does  !     I  can't  follow  his  French  accent." 

She  smiled  again,  in  spite  of  herself.  Will  shuddered 
with  a  thrill  of  fear,  she  was  so  weak  and  worn.  But 
the  sun  shone  on  the  dazzling,  rustling  wheat,  the 
fathomless  sky\  blue  as  a  sea,  bent  above  them  —  and 
the  world  lay  before  tnem. 
9 


UP  THE   COOLLY 

<sr  Keep  the  main- travelled  road  up 
the  Coolly  —  it's  the  second  bouse 
after  crossirf  the  crick" 


UP  THE   COOLLY 

THE  ride  from  Milwaukee  to  the  Mississippi  is  a  fine 
ride  at  any  time,  superb  in  summer.  To  lean  back  in 
a  reclining-chair  and  whirl  away  in  a  breezy  July  day, 
past  lakes,  groves  of  oak,  past  fields  of  barley  being 
reaped,  past  hay-fields,  where  the  heavy  grass  is  toppling 
before  the  swift  sickle,  is  a  panorama  of  delight,  a  road 
full  of  delicious  surprises,  where  down  a  sudden  vista 
lakes  open,  or  a  distant  wooded  hill  looms  darkly  blue, 
or  swift  streams,  foaming  deep  down  the  solid  rock, 
send  whiffs  of  cool  breezes  in  at  the  windo",v. 

It  has  majesty,  breadth.     The  farming  has  nothinX 
apparently  petty  about  it.     All  seems  vigorous,  youth-  \^ 
ful,    and    prosperous.       Mr.    Howard   McLane    in    his       J 
chair  let  his  newspaper  fall  on  his  lap,  and  gazed  out      / 
upon  it  with  dreaming  eyes.      It  had  a  certain  mysteri-     / 
ous  glamour  to  him ;   the  lakes  were  cooler  and  brighter    / 
to  his  eye,  the  greens  fresher,  and  the  grain  more  golden  / 
than  to  any  one  else,  for  he  was  coming  back  to  it  all 
after  an  absence  of  ten  years.     It  was,  besides,  his  West. 
He  still  took  prid:  in  being  a  Western  man. 

His  mind  all  day  flew  ahead  of  the  train  to  the  little 
town,  far  on  toward  the  Mississippi,  where  he  had  spent 
his  boyhood  and  youth.  As  the  train  passed  the  Wis 
consin  River,  with  its  curiously  carved  cliffs,  its  cold, 

69 


yo  Main -Travelled  Roads 

dark,  swift-swirling  water  eating  slowly  under  cedar- 
clothed  banks,  Howard  began  to  feel  curious  little  move 
ments  of  the  heart,  like  those  of  a  lover  nearing  his 
sweetheart. 

The  hills  changed  in  character,  growing  more  inti 
mately  recognizable.  They  rose  higher  as  the  train  left 
the  ridge  and  passed  down  into  the  Black  River  valley, 
and  specifically  into  the  La  Crosse  valley.  They  ceased 
to  have  any  hint  of  upheavals  of  rock,  and  became 
simply  parts  of  the  ancient  level  left  standing  after  the 
water  had  practically  given  up  its  post-glacial  scooping 
action. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
splendid  broken  line  of  hills  on  which  his  baby  eyes  had 
looked  thirty-five  years  ago.  A  few  minutes  later,  and 
the  tram  drew  up  at  the  grimy  little  station  set  into  the 
hillside,  and,  giving  him  just  time  to  leap  off",  plunged 
on  again  toward  the  West.  Howard  felt  a  ridiculous 
weakness  in  his  legs  as  he  stepped  out  upon  the  broiling- 
hot,  splintery  planks  of  the  station  and  faced  the  few 
idlers  lounging  about.  He  simply  stood  and  gazed  with 
the  same  intensity  and  absorption  one  of  the  idlers  might 
show  standing  before  the  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

The  town  caught  and  held  his  eyes  first.     How  poor 
,and  dull  and  sleepy  and  squalid  it  seemed !     The  one 
^main  street  ended  at  the  hillside  at  his  left,  and  stretched 
away  to  the  north,  between  two  rows  of  the  usual  vil 
lage  stores,  unrelieved  by  a  tree  or  a  touch  of  beauty. 
An  unpaved  street,  with  walled,  drab-colored,  miserable, 
rotting  wooden  buildings,  with  the  inevitable  battlements ; 


Up  the  Coolly  71 

the  same  —  only  worse  and  more  squalid  —  was  the 
town. 

The  same,  only  more  beautiful  still,  was  the  majestic 
amphitheatre  of  green  wooded  hills  that  circled  the  hori 
zon,  and  toward  which  he  lifted  his  eyes.  He  thrilled 
at  the  sight. 

"  Glorious  !  "  he  cried  involuntarily. 

Accustomed  to  the  White  Mountains,  to  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  he  had  wondered  if  these  hills  would  retain 
their  old-time  charm.  They  did.  He  took  off  his  hat 
to  them  as  he  stood  there.  Richly  wooded,  with  gently 
sloping  green  sides,  rising  to  massive  square  or  rounded 
tops  with  dim  vistas,  they  glowed  down  upon  the  squat 
little  town,  gracious,  lofty  in  their  greeting,  immortal  in 
their  vivid  and  delicate  beauty. 

He  was  a  goodly  figure  of  a  man  as  he  stood  there 
beside  his  valise.  Portly,  erect,  handsomely  dressed, 
and  with  something  unusually  winning  in  his  brown 
mustache  and  blue  eyes,  something  scholarly  suggested 
by  the  pinch-nose  glasses,  something  strong  in  the  re 
pose  of  the  head.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  how  unchanged 
was  the  grouping  of  the  old  loafers  on  the  salt-barrels 
and  nail-kegs.  He  recognized  most  of  them  —  a  little 
dirtier,  a  little  more  bent,  and  a  little  grayer. 

They  sat  in  the  same  attitudes,  spat  tobacco  with 
the  same  calm  delight,  and  joked  each  other,  breaking 
into  short  and  sudden  fits  of  laughter,  and  pounded  each 
other  on  the  back,  just  as  when  he  was  a  student  at  the 
La  Crosse  Seminary  and  going  to  and  fro  daily  on  the 
ti  -ain. 


72  Main -Travelled  Roads 

They  ruminated  on  him  as  he  passed,  speculating  in 
a  perfectly  audible  way  upon  his  business. 

"  Looks  like  a  drummer." 

cc  No,  he  ain't  no  drummer.  See  them  Boston 
glasses  ? " 

"That's  so.     Guess  he's  a  teacher." 

"  Looks  like  a  moneyed  cuss." 

"  Bos'n,  I  guess" 

He  knew  the  one  who  spoke  last  —  Freeme  Cole,  a 
man  who  was  the  fighting  wonder  of  Howard's  boy 
hood,  now  degenerated  into  a  stoop-shouldered,  faded, 
garrulous,  and  quarrelsome  old  man.  Yet  there  was 
something  epic  in  the  old  man's  stories,  something  en 
thralling  in  the  dramatic  power  of  recital. 

Over  by  the  blacksmith  shop  the  usual  game  of 
"  quaits "  was  in  progress,  and  the  drug-clerk  on  the 
corner  was  chasing  a  crony  with  the  squirt-pump  with 
which  he  was  about  to  wash  the  windows.  A  few 
teams  stood  ankle-deep  in  the  mud,  tied  to  the  fantasti 
cally  gnawed  pine  pillars  of  the  wooden  awnings.  A  man 
on  a  load  of  hay  was  "jawing  "  with  the  attendant  of  the 
platform  scales,  who  stood  below,  pad  and  pencil  in  hand. 

"  Hit  'im  !  hit  'im  !  Jump  off  and  knock  'im  !  "  sug 
gested  a  bystander,  jovially. 

Howard  knew  the  voice. 

"  Talk's  cheap.  Takes  money  to  buy  whiskey,"  he 
said,  when  the  man  on  the  load  repeated  his  threat  of 
getting  off  and  whipping  the  scales-man. 

"You're  William  McTurg,"  Howard  said,  coming 
up  to  him. 


Up  the  Coolly  73 

"I  am,  sir,"  replied  the  soft-voiced  giant,  turning 
and  looking  down  on  the  stranger,  with  an  amused 
twinkle  in  his  deep  brown  eyes.  He  stood  as  erect 
as  an  Indian,  though  his  hair  and  beard  were  white. 

"I'm  Howard  McLane." 

"  Ye  begin  t'  look  it,"  said  McTurg,  removing  his 
right  hand  from  his  pocket.  "  How  are  ye  ?  " 

"  I'm  first-rate.     How's  mother  and  Grant  ?  " 

"Saw  *m  ploughing  corn  as  I  came  down.  Guess 
he's  all  right.  Want  a  boost  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes.     Are  you  down  with  a  team  ?  " 

"  Yep.  'Bout  goin'  home.  Climb  right  in.  That's 
my  rig,  right  there,"  nodding  at  a  sleek  bay  colt  hitched 
in  a  covered  buggy.  "  Heave  y'r  grip  under  the 
seat." 

They  climbed  into  the  seat  after  William  had  lowered 
the  buggy-top  and  unhitched  the  horse  from  the  post. 
The  loafers  were  mildly  curious.  Guessed  Bill  had  got 
hooked  onto  by  a  lightnin'-rod  peddler,  or  somethin'  o' 
that  kind. 

"  Want  to  go  by  river,  or  'round  by  the  hills  ?  " 

"  Hills,  I  guess." 

The  whole  matter  began  to  seem  trivial,  as  if  he  had 
been  away  only  for  a  month  or  two. 

William  McTurg  was  a  man  little  given  to  talk. 
Even  the  coming  back  of  a  nephew  did  not  cause  any 
flow  of  questions  or  reminiscences.  They  rode  in 
silence.  He  sat  a  little  bent  forward,  the  lines  held 
carelessly  in  his  hands,  his  great  lion-like  head  swaying 
to  and  fro  with  the  movement  of  the  buggy. 


74  Main -Travelled  Roads 

As  they  passed  familiar  spots,  the  younger  man  broke 
the  silence  with  a  question. 

"  That's  old  man  McElvaine's  place,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"Yep." 

"Old  man  living?" 

"  I  guess  he  is.   Husk  more  corn'n  any  man  he  c'n  hire." 

In  the  edge  of  the  village  they  passed  an  open  lot  on 
the  left,  marked  with  circus-rings  of  different  eras. 

"  There's  the  old  ball-ground.  Do  they  have  cir 
cuses  on  it  just  the  same  as  ever  ? " 

"Just  the  same." 

"  What  fun  that  field  calls  up !  The  games  of  ball 
we  used  to  have  !  Do  you  play  yet  ? " 

"  Sometimes.  Can't  stoop  as  well  as  I  used  to."  He 
smiled  a  little.  "  Too  much  fat." 

It  all  swept  back  upon  Howard  in  a  flood  of  names 
and  faces  and  sights  and  sounds ;  something  sweet  and 
stirring  somehow,  though  it  had  little  of  aesthetic  charms 
at  the  time.  They  were  passing  along  lanes  now,  be 
tween  superb  fields  of  corn,  wherein  ploughmen  were  at 
work.  Kingbirds  flew  from  post  to  post  ahead  of  them  ; 
the  insects  called  from  the  grass.  The  valley  slowly 
outspread  below  them.  The  workmen  in  the  fields 
were  "  turning  out "  for  the  night.  They  all  had  a 
word  of  chaff  with  McTurg. 

Over  the  western  wall  of  the  circling  amphitheatre 
the  sun  was  setting.  A  few  scattering  clouds  were 
drifting  on  the  west  wind,  their  shadows  sliding  down 
the  green  and  purpled  slopes.  The  dazzling  sunlight 
flamed  along  the  luscious  velvety  grass,  and  shot  amid 


Up  the  Coolly  75 

the  rounded,  distant  purple  peaks,  and  streamed  in  bars 
of  gold  and  crimson  across  the  blue  mist  of  the  narrower 
upper  Coollies. 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  swelled  with  pleasure 
almost  like  pain,  and  the  eyes  of  the  silent  older  man 
took  on  a  far-off,  dreaming  look,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
scene  which  had  repeated  itself  a  thousand  times  in  his 
life,  but  of  whose  beauty  he  never  spoke. 

Far  down  to  the  left  was  the  break  in  the  wall  through 
which  the  river  ran  on  its  way  to  join  the  Mississippi. 
They  climbed  slowly  among  the  hills,  and  the  valley 
they  had  left  grew  still  more  beautiful  as  the  squalor  of 
the  little  town  was  hid  by  the  dusk  of  distance.  Both 
men  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Howard  knew  the 
peculiarities  of  his  companion  too  well  to  make  any  re 
marks  or  ask  any  questions,  and  besides  it  was  a  genuine 
pleasure  to  ride  with  one  who  understood  that  silence  was 
the  only  speech  amid  such  splendors. 

Once  they  passed  a  little  brook  singing  in  a  mourn 
fully  sweet  way  its  eternal  song  over  its  pebbles.  It 
called  back  to  Howard  the  days  when  he  and  Grant,  his 
younger  brother,  had  fished  in  this  little  brook  for  trout, 
with  trousers  rolled  above  the  knee  and  wrecks  of  hats 
upon  their  heads. 

"  Any  trout  left  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  many.  Little  fellers."  Finding  the  silence 
broken,  William  asked  the  first  question  since  he  met 
Howard.  "  Le'  's  see :  you're  a  show  feller  now  f 
B'long  to  a  troupe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  j  I'm  an  actor." 


j6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Pay  much  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well." 

That  seemed  to  end  William's  curiosity  about  the 
matter. 

"  Ah,  there's  our  old  house,  ain't  it  ? "  Howard 
broke  out,  pointing  to  one  of  the  houses  farther  up  the 
Coolly.  "  It'll  be  a  surprise  to  them,  won't  it  ? " 

"  Yep ;  only  they  don't  live  there." 

«  What !     They  don't !  " 

«  No." 

«  Who  does  ?  " 

"Dutchman." 

Howard  was  silent  for  some  moments.  "  Who  lives 
on  the  Dunlap  place  ?  " 

"  'Mother  Dutchman." 

"  Where's  Grant  living,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Farther  up  the  Coolly." 

"Well,  then,  I'd  better  get  out  here,  hadn't  I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  drive  ye  up." 

"  No,  I'd  rather  walk." 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  Coolly  was  getting  dusk 
when  Howard  got  out  of  McTurg's  carriage  and  set  off 
up  the  winding  lane  toward  his  brother's  house.  He 
walked  slowly  to  absorb  the  coolness  and  fragrance  and 
color  of  the  hour.  The  katydids  sang  a  rhythmic  song 
of  welcome  to  him.  Fireflies  were  in  the  grass.  A 
whippoorwill  in  the  deep  of  the  wood  was  calling 
weirdly,  and  an  occasional  night-hawk,  flying  high, 
gave  his  grating  shriek,  or  hollow  boom,  suggestive 
and  resounding. 


Up  the  Coolly  77 

He  had  been  wonderfully  successful,  and  yet  had  car 
ried  into  his  success  as  a  dramatic  author  as  well  as  actor 
a  certain  puritanism  that  made  him  a  paradox  to  his 
fellows.  He  was  one  of  those  actors  who  are  always  in 
luck,  and  the  best  of  it  was  he  kept  and  made  use  of  his 
luck.  Jovial  as  he  appeared,  he  was  inflexible  as  granite 
against  drink  and  tobacco.  He  retained  through  it  all  a 
certain  freshness  of  enjoyment  that  made  him  one  of 
the  best  companions  in  the  profession ;  and  now,  as  he 
walked  on,  the  hour  and  the  place  appealed  to  him  with 
great  power.  It  seemed  to  sweep  away  the  life  that 
came  between. 

How  close  it  all  was  to  him,  after  all !  In  his  rest 
less  life,  surrounded  by  the  glare  of  electric  lights,  painted 
canvas,  hot  colors,  creak  of  machinery,  mock  trees, 
stones,  and  brooks,  he  had  not  lost,  but  gained,  appre 
ciation  for  the  coolness,  quiet,  and  low  tones,  the  shy 
ness  of  the  wood  and  field. 

In  the  farmhouse  ahead  of  him  a  light  was  shining 
as  he  peered  ahead,  and  his  heart  gave  another  painful 
movement.  His  brother  was  awaiting  him  there,  and 
his  mother,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  ten  years  and  who 
had  lost  the  power  to  write.  And  when  Grant  wrote, 
which  had  been  more  and  more  seldom  of  late,  his 
letters  had  been  cold  and  curt. 

He  began  to  feel  that  in  the  pleasure  and  excitement 
of  his  life  he  had  grown  away  from  his  mother  and 
brother.  Each  summer  he  had  said,  "  Well,  now,  I'll 
go  home  this  year,  sure."  But  a  new  play  to  be  pro 
duced,  or  a  new  yachting  trip,  or  a  tour  of  Europe,  had 


78  Main -Travelled  Roads 

put  the  home-coming  off;  and  now  it  was  with  a  dis 
tinct  consciousness  of  neglect  of  duty  that  he  walked  up 
to  the  fence  and  looked  into  the  yard,  where  William 
had  told  him  his  brother  lived. 

It  was  humble  enough  —  a  small  white  story-and 
a-half  structure,  with  a  wing  set  in  the  midst  of  a  few 
locust-trees;  a  small  drab-colored  barn  with  a  sagging 
ridge-pole;  a  barnyard  full  of  mud,  in  which  a  few  cows 
were  standing,  fighting  the  flies  and  waiting  to  be  milked. 
An  old  man  was  pumping  water  at  the  well ;  the  pigs 
were  squealing  from  a  pen  near  by ;  a  child  was  crying. 

Instantly  the  beautiful,  peaceful  valley  was  forgotten. 
A  sickening  chill  struck  into  Howard's  soul  as  he  looked 
at  it  all.  In  the  dim  light  he  could  see  a  figure  milking 
a  cow.  Leaving  his  valise  at  the  gate,  he  entered  and 
walked  up  to  the  old  man,  who  had  finished  pumping 
and  was  about  to  go  to  feed  the  hogs. 

"  Good-evening,"  Howard  began.  "  Does  Mr.  Grant 
McLane  live  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  does.     He's  right  over  there  milkin'." 

"  I'll  go  over  there  an  —  " 

"  Don't  b'lieve  I  would.  It's  darn  muddy  over  there. 
It's  been  tumble  rainy.  He'll  be  done  in  a  minute, 
anyway." 

"  Very  well ;   I'll  wait." 

As  he  waited,  he  could  hear  a  woman's  fretful  voice 
and  the  impatient  jerk  and  jar  of  kitchen  things,  indica 
tive  of  ill-temper  or  worry.  The  longer  he  stood  absorb 
ing  this  farm-scene,  with  all  its  sordidness,  dullness, 
triviality,  and  its  endless  drudgeries,  the  lower  his  heart 


Up  the  Coolly  79 

sank.  All  the  joy  of  the  home-coming  was  gone,  when 
the  figure  arose  from  the  cow  and  approached  the  gate, 
and  put  the  pail  of  milk  down  on  the  platform  by  the 
pump. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Howard,  out  of  the  dusk. 

Grant  stared  a  moment.     "  Good-evening." 

Howard  knew  the  voice,  though  it  was  older  and 
deeper  and  more  sullen.  "  Don't  you  know  me,  Grant  ? 
I  am  Howard." 

The  man  approached  him,  gazing  intently  at  his  face. 
"You  are?"  after  a  pause.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you,  but  I  can't  shake  hands.  That  damned  cow  had 
laid  down  in  the  mud." 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other.  Howard's 
cuffs,  collar,  and  shirt,  alien  in  their  elegance,  showed 
through  the  dusk,  and  a  glint  of  light  shot  out  from  the 
jewel  of  his  necktie,  as  the  light  from  the  house  caught 
it  at  the  right  angle.  As  they  gazed  in  silence  at  each 
other,  Howard  divined  something  of  the  hard,  bitter 
feeling  that  came  into  Grant's  heart,  as  he  stood  there, 
ragged,  ankle-deep  in  muck,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  a 
shapeless  old  straw  hat  on  his  head. 

The  gleam  of  Howard's  white  hands  angered  him. 
When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  hard,  gruff  tone,  full  of 
rebellion. 

"Well,  go  in  the  house  and  set  down.  I'll  be  in 
soon  's  I  strain  the  milk  and  wash  the  dirt  off  my  hands." 

"But  mother  —  " 

"She's  'round  somewhere.  Just  knock  on  the  door 
under  the  porch  round  there." 


8o  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Howard  went  slowly  around  the  corner  of  the  house^ 
past  a  vilely  smelling  rain-barrel,  toward  the  west.  A 
gray-haired  woman  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  on  the 
porch,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  faintly 
yellow  sky,  against  which  the  hills  stood,  dim  purple 
silhouettes,  and  on  which  the  locust  trees  were  etched  as 
fine  as  lace.  There  was  sorrow,  resignation,  and  a  sort 
of  dumb  despair  in  her  attitude. 

Howard  stood,  his  throat  swelling  till  it  seemed  as  if 
he  would  suffocate.  This  was  his  mother  —  the  woman 
who  bore  him,  the  being  who  had  taken  her  life  in  her 
hand  for  him ;  and  he,  in  his  excited  and  pleasurable 
life,  had  neglected  her  ! 

He  stepped  into  the  faint  light  before  her.  She  turned 
and  looked  at  him  without  fear.  "  Mother !  "  he  said. 
She  uttered  one  little,  breathing,  gasping  cry,  called  his 
name,  rose,  and  stood  still.  He  bounded  up  the  steps, 
and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

u  Mother  !     Dear  old  mother !  " 

In  the  silence,  almost  painful,  which  followed,  an 
angry  woman's  voice  could  be  heard  inside  :  "  I  don't 
care !  I  ain't  goin'  to  wear  myself  out  fer  him.  He 
c'n  eat  out  here  with  us,  or  else  —  " 

Mrs.  McLane  began  speaking.  "  Oh,  I've  longed  to 
see  yeh,  Howard.  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  come  till 
—  too  late." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mother  ?     Ain't  you  well  ?  " 

"  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  do  much  now  'cept  sit 
around  and  knit  a  little.  I  tried  to  pick  some  berries 
the  other  day,  and  I  got  so  dizzy  I  had  to  give  it  up." 


Up  the  Coolly  81 

"You  mustn't  work.  You  needn't  work.  Why 
didn't  you  write  to  me  how  you  were  ? "  Howard  asked, 
in  an  agony  of  remorse. 

"  Well,  we  felt  as  if  you  probably  had  all  you  could 
do  to  take  care  of  yourself.  Are  you  married,  How 
ard  ?  "  she  broke  off  to  ask. 

"  No,  mother ;  and  there  ain't  any  excuse  for  me  — 
not  a  bit,"  he  said,  dropping  back  into  her  colloquialisms. 
"  I'm  ashamed  when  I  think  of  how  long  it's  been  since 
I  saw  you.  I  could  have  come." 

"  It  don't  matter  now,"  she  interrupted  gently.  "  It's 
the  way  things  go.  Our  boys  grow  up  and  leave  us." 

"  Well,  come  in  to  supper,"  said  Grant's  ungracious 
voice  from  the  doorway.  "  Come,  mother." 

Mrs.  McLane  moved  with  difficulty.  Howard  sprang 
to  her  aid,  and,  leaning  on  his  arm,  she  went  through 
the  little  sitting  room,  which  was  unlighted,  out  into  the 
kitchen,  where  the  supper  table  stood  near  the  cook-stove. 

"How.  —  this  is  my  wife,"  said  Grant,  in  a  cold, 
peculiar  tone. 

Howard  bowed  toward  a  remarkably  handsome  young 
woman,  on  whose  forehead  was  a  scowl,  which  did  not 
change  as  she  looked  at  him  and  the  old  lady. 

"  Set  dov/n  anywhere,"  was  the  young  woman's  cor 
dial  invitation. 

Howard  sat  down  next  his  mother,  and  facing  the 
wife,  who  had  a  small,  fretful  child  in  her  arms.  At 
Howard's  left  was  the  old  man,  Lewis.  The  supper 
was  spread  upon  a  gay-colored  oil-cloth,  and  consisted 
of  a  pan  of  milk,  set  in  the  midst,  with  bowls  at  each 

G 


82  Main -Travelled  Roads 

plate.  Beside  the  pan  was  a  dipper  and  a  large  plate 
of  bread,  and  at  one  end  of  the  table  was  a  dish  of 
fine  honey. 

A  boy  of  about  fourteen  leaned  upon  the  table,  his 
bent  shoulders  making  him  look  like  an  old  man.  His 
hickory  shirt,  like  Grant's,  was  still  wet  with  sweat,  and 
discolored  here  and  there  with  grease,  or  green  from 
grass.  His  hair,  freshly  wet  and  combed,  was  smoothed 
away  from  his  face,  and  shone  in  the  light  of  the 
kerosene  lamp.  As  he  ate,  he  stared  at  Howard,  as 
though  he  would  make  an  inventory  of  each  thread  of 
the  visitor's  clothing. 

"  Did  I  look  like  that  at  his  age  ?  "  thought  Howard. 

"  You  see  we  live  just  about  the  same  as  ever,"  said 
Grant,  as  they  began  eating,  speaking  with  a  grim, 
almost  challenging,  inflection. 

The  two  brothers  studied  each  other  curiously,  as 
they  talked  of  neighborhood  scenes.  Howard  seemed 
incredibly  elegant  and  handsome  to  them  all,  with  his 
rich,  soft  clothing,  his  spotless  linen,  and  his  exquisite 
enunciation  and  ease  of  speech.  He  had  always  been 
"  smooth-spoken,"  and  he  had  become  "  elegantly  per 
suasive,"  as  his  friends  said  of  him,  and  it  was  a  large 
factor  in  his  success. 

Every  detail  of  the  kitchen,  the  heat,  the  flies  buzzing 
aloft,  the  poor  furniture,  the  dress  of  the  people  —  all 
smote  him  like  the  lash  of  a  wire  whip.  His  brother 
was  a  man  of  great  character.  He  could  see  that  now. 
His  deep-set,  gray  eyes  and  rugged  face  showed  at  thirty 
a  man  of  great  natural  ability.  He  had  more  of  the 


Up  the  Coolly  83 

Scotch  in  his  face  than  Howard,  and  he  looked  much 
older. 

He  was  dressed,  like  the  old  man  and  the  boy,  in  a 
checked  shirt,  without  vest.  His  suspenders,  once  gay- 
colored,  had  given  most  of  their  color  to  his  shirt,  and 
had  marked  irregular  broad  bands  of  pink  and  brown 
and  green  over  his  shoulders.  His  hair  was  uncombed, 
merely  pushed  away  from  his  face.  He  wore  a  mus 
tache  only,  though  his  face  was  covered  with  a  week's 
growth  of  beard.  His  face  was  rather  gaunt,  and  was 
brown  as  leather. 

Howard  could  not  eat  much.  He  was  disturbed  by 
his  mother's  strange  silence  and  oppression,  and  sick 
ened  by  the  long-drawn  gasps  with  which  the  old  man 
ate  his  bread  and  milk,  and  by  the  way  the  boy  ate. 
He  had  his  knife  gripped  tightly  in  his  fist,  knuckles  up, 
and  was  scooping  honey  upon  his  bread. 

The  baby,  having  ceased  to  be  afraid,  was  curious, 
gazing  silently  at  the  stranger. 

"  Hello,  little  one  !  Come  and  see  your  uncle.  Eh  ? 
Course  'e  will,"  cooed  Howard,  in  the  attempt  to  escape 
the  depressing  atmosphere.  The  little  one  listened  to 
his  inflections  as  a  kitten  does,  and  at  last  lifted  its  arms 
in  sign  of  surrender. 

The  mother's  face  cleared  up  a  little.  "  I  declare, 
she  wants  to  go  to  you." 

"  Course  she  does.  Dogs  and  kittens  always  come  to 
me  when  I  call  'em.  Why  shouldn't  my  own  niece 
come  ?  " 

He  took   the  little   one   and  began   walking   up   and 


84  Main -Travelled  Roads 

down  the  kitchen  with  her,  while  she  pulled  at  his 
beard  and  nose.  "  I  ought  to  have  you,  my  lady,  in  my 
new  comedy.  You'd  bring  down  the  house." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  put  babies  on  the  stage, 
Howard  ? "  said  his  mother  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Domestic  comedy  must  have  a  baby 
these  days." 

"Well,  that's  another  way  of  makin'  a  livin',  sure," 
said  Grant.  The  baby  had  cleared  the  atmosphere  a 
little.  "  I  s'pose  you  fellers  make  a  pile  of  money." 

"Sometimes  we  make  a  thousand  a  week;  oftener 
we  don't." 

"  A  thousand  dollars  !  "     They  all  stared. 

"  A  thousand  dollars  sometimes,  and  then  lose  it  all 
the  next  week  in  another  town.  The  dramatic  business 
is  a  good  deal  like  gambling  —  you  take  your  chances." 

"  I  wish  you  weren't  in  it,  Howard.  I  don't  like  to 
have  my  son  —  " 

"I  wish  I  was  in  somethin'  that  paid  better  than 
farmin'.  Anything  under  God's  heavens  is  better  'n 
farmin',"  said  Grant. 

"No,  I  ain't  laid  up  much,"  Howard  went  on,  as  if 
explaining  why  he  hadn't  helped  them.  "  Costs  me  a 
good  deal  to  live,  and  I  need  about  ten  thousand  dollars 
leeway  to  work  on.  I've  made  a  good  living,  but  I  — -I 
ain't  made  any  money." 

Grant  looked  at  him,  darkly  meditative. 

Howard  went  on :  "  How'd  ye  come  to  sell  the  old 
farm  ?  I  was  in  hopes  —  " 

"  How'd  we  come  to  sell  it  ?  "  said  Grant  with  terri- 


Up  the  Coolly  85 

ble  bitterness.  "We  had  something  on  it  that  didn't 
leave  anything  to  sell.  You  probably  don't  remember 
anything  about  it,  but  there  was  a  mortgage  on  it  that 
eat  us  up  in  just  four  years  by  the  almanac.  'Most 
killed  mother  to  leave  it.  We  wrote  to  you  for  money, 
but  I  don't  suppose  you  remember  that." 

"No,  you  didn't." 

"Yes,  I  did." 

u  When  was  it  ?  I  don't  —  why,  it's  —  I  never  re 
ceived  it,  It  must  have  been  that  summer  I  went  with 
Bob  Manning  to  Europe."  Howard  put  the  baby  down 
and  faced  his  brother.  "  Why,  Grant,  you  didn't  think 
I  refused  to  help  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  looked  that  way.  We  never  heard  a  word 
from  yeh,  all  summer,  and  when  y'  did  write,  it  was  all 
about  yerself  'n  plays  'n  things  we  didn't  know  anything 
about.  I  swore  to  God  I'd  never  write  to  you  again, 
and  I  won't." 

"  But,  good  heavens  !  I  never  got  it." 

"Suppose  you  didn't.  You  might  have  known  we 
were  poor  as  Job's  off-ox.  Everybody  is  that  earns  a 
living.  We  fellers  on  the  farm  have  to  earn  a  livin' 
for  ourselves  and  you  fellers  that  don't  work.  I  don't 
blame  you.  I'd  do  it  if  I  could." 

"  Grant,  don't  talk  so  !      Howard  didn't  realize  —  " 

"  I  tell  yeh  I  don't  blame  him !  Only  I  don't  want 
him  to  come  the  brotherly  business  over  me,  after  livin' 
as  he  has  —  that's  all."  There  was  a  bitter  accusation 
in  the  man's  voice. 

Howard  leaped  to  his  feet,  his  face  twitching. 


86  Main -Travelled  Roads 

tc  By  God,  I'll  go  back  to-morrow  morning!"  he 
threatened. 

"  Go,  an'  be  damned !  I  don't  care  what  yeh  do5" 
Grant  growled,  rising  and  going  out. 

w  Boys,"  called  the  mother,  piteously,  "  it's  terrible  to 
see  you  quarrel." 

"  But  I'm  not  to  blame,  mother,"  cried  Howard,  in  a 
sickness  that  made  him  white  as  chalk.  "  The  man  is 
a  savage.  I  came  home  to  help  you  all,  not  to  quarrel." 

"  Grant's  got  one  o'  his  fits  on,"  said  the  young  wife, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  Don't  pay  any  attention 
to  him.  He'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"If  it  wasn't  for  you,  mother,  I'd  leave  now,  and 
never  see  that  savage  again." 

He  lashed  himself  up  and  down  in  the  room,  in  horri 
ble  disgust  and  hate  of  his  brother  and  of  this  home  in 
his  heart.  He  remembered  his  tender  anticipations  of 
the  home-coming  with  a  kind  of  self-pity  and  disgust. 
This  was  his  greeting ! 

He  went  to  bed,  to  toss  about  on  the  hard,  straw-filled 
mattress  in  the  stuffy  little  best  room.  Tossing,  writh 
ing  under  the  bludgeoning  of  his  brother's  accusing  in 
flections,  a  dozen  times  he  said,  with  a  half-articulate 
snarl : 

"  He  can  go  to  hell !  I'll  not  try  to  do  anything 
more  for  him.  I  don't  care  jf  he  is  my  brother  j  he  has 
no  right  to  jump  on  me  like  that.  On  the  night  of  my 
return,  too.  My  God  !  he  is  a  brute,  a  fool !  " 

He  thought  of  the  presents  in  his  trunk  and  valise, 
which  he  couldn't  show  to  him  that  night  after  what  had 


Up  the  Coolly  87 

been  said.  He  had  intended  to  have  such  a  happy  even 
ing  of  it,  such  a  tender  reunion  !  It  was  to  be  so  bright 
and  cheery  ! 

In  the  midst  of  his  cursings  —  his  hot  indignation  — 
would  come  visions  of  himself  in  his  own  modest  rooms. 
He  seemed  to  be  yawning  and  stretching  in  his  beauti 
ful  bed,  the  sun  shining  in,  his  books,  foils,  pictures, 
around  him  to  say  good-morning  and  tempt  him  to  rise, 
while  the  squat  little  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  eleven 
warningly. 

He  could  see  the  olive  walls,  the  unique  copper-and- 
crimson  arabesque  frieze  (his  own  selection),  and  the 
delicate  draperies  ;  an  open  grate  full  of  glowing  coals, 
to  temper  the  sea-winds  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  between 
a  landscape  by  Enneking  and  an  Indian  in  a  canoe  in  a 
cafion,  by  Brush,  he  saw  a  sombre  landscape  by  a  master 
greater  than  Millet,  a  melancholy  subject,  treated  with 
pitiless  fidelity. 

A  farm  in  the  valley  !  Over  the  mountains  swept 
jagged,  gray,  angry,  sprawling  clouds,  sending  a  freezing, 
thin  drizzle  of  rain,  as  they  passed,  upon  a  man  following 
a  plough.  The  horses  had  a  sullen  and  weary  look,  and 
their  manes  and  tails  streamed  sidewise  in  the  blast. 
The  ploughman,  clad  in  a  ragged  gray  coat,  with  uncouth, 
muddy  boots  upon  his  feet,  walked  with  his  head  inclined 
toward  the  sleet,  to  shield  his  face  from  the  cold  and 
sting  of  it.  The  soil  rolled  away  black  and  sticky  and 
with  a  dull  sheen  upon  it.  Near  by,  a  boy  with  tears  on 
his  cheeks  was  watching  cattle  j  a  dog  seated  near,  his 
back  to  the  gale. 


88  Main -Travelled  Roads 

As  he  looked  at  this  picture,  his  heart  softened.  He 
looked  down  at  the  sleeve  of  his  soft  and  fleecy  night 
shirt,  at  his  white,  rounded  arm,  muscular,  yet  fine  as  a 
woman's,  and  when  he  looked  for  the  picture  it  was  gone. 
Then  came  again  the  assertive  odor  of  stagnant  air,  laden 
with  camphor;  he  felt  the  springless  bed  under  him, 
and  caught  dimly  a  few  soap-advertising  lithographs 
on  the  walls.  He  thought  of  his  brother,  in  his  still 
more  inhospitable  bedroom,  disturbed  by  the  child,  con 
demned  to  rise  at  five  o'clock  and  begin  another  day's 
pitiless  labor.  His  heart  shrank  and  quivered,  and  the 
tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

u  I  forgive  him,  poor  fellow  !     He's  not  to  blame." 

II 

He  woke,  however,  with  a  dull,  languid  pulse,  and  an 
oppressive  melancholy  on  his  heart.  He  looked  around 
the  little  room,  clean  enough,  but  oh,  how  poor !  how 
barren  !  Cold  plaster  walls,  a  cheap  wash-stand,  a  wash- 
set  of  three  pieces,  with  a  blue  band  around  each ;  the 
windows  rectangular,  and  fitted  with  fantastic  green 
shades. 

Outside  he  could  hear  the  bees  humming.  Chickens 
were  merrily  moving  about.  Cow-bells  far  up  the  road 
were  sounding  irregularly.  A  jay  came  by  and  yelled  an 
insolent  reveille,  and  Howard  sat  up.  He  could  hear 
nothing  in  the  house  but  the  rattle  of  pans  on  the  back 
side  of  the  kitchen.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  which 
indicated  half-past  seven.  Grant  was  already  in  the  field, 


Up  the  Coolly  89 

after  milking,  currying  the  horses,  and  eating  breakfast 
—  had  been  at  work  two  hours  and  a  half. 

He  dressed  himself  hurriedly,  in  a  neglige  shirt,  with 
a  Windsor  scarf,  light-colored,  serviceable  trousers  with 
a  belt,  russet  shoes,  and  a  tennis  hat  —  a  knockabout 
costume,  he  considered.  His  mother,  good  soul,  thought 
it  a  special  suit  put  on  for  her  benefit,  and  admired  it 
through  her  glasses. 

He  kissed  her  with  a  bright  smile,  nodded  at  Laura, 
the  young  wife,  and  tossed  the  baby,  all  in  a  breath,  and 
with  the  manner,  as  he  himself  saw,  of  the  returned  cap 
tain  in  the  war-dramas  of  the  day. 

"  Been  to  breakfast  ? "  He  frowned  reproachfully. 
"Why  didn't  you  call  me?  I  wanted  to  get  up, just  as 
I  used  to,  at  sunrise." 

"We  thought  you  was  tired,  and  so  we  didn't  — " 

"  Tired !  Just  wait  till  you  see  me  help  Grant 
pitch  hay  or  something.  Hasn't  finished  his  haying  yet, 
has  he  ?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  not.   He  will  to-day  if  it  don't  rain  again." 

u  Well,  breakfast  is  all  ready  —  Howard,"  said  Laura, 
hesitating  a  little  on  his  name. 

"  Good  !  I  am  ready  for  it.  Bacon  and  eggs,  as  I'm 
a  jay  !  Just  what  I  was  wanting.  I  was  saying  to 
myself:  'Now  if  they'll  only  get  bacon  and  eggs  and 
hot  biscuits  and  honey  — '  Oh,  say,  mother,  I  heard  the 
bees  humming  this  morning ;  same  noise  they  used  to 
make  when  I  was  a  boy,  exactly.  Must  be  the  same 
bees,  —  Hey,  you  young  rascal!  come  here  and  have 
some  breakfast  with  your  uncle." 


90  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  I  never  saw  her  take  to  any  one  so  quick,"  Laura 
said,  emphasizing  the  baby's  sex.  She  had  on  a  clean 
calico  dress  and  a  gingham  apron,  and  she  looked  strong 
and  fresh  and  handsome.  Her  head  was  intellectual, 
her  eyes  full  of  power.  She  seemed  anxious  to  remove 
the  impression  of  her  unpleasant  looks  and  words  the 
night  before.  Indeed  it  would  have  been  hard  to  resist 
Howard's  sunny  good-nature. 

The  baby  laughed  and  crowed.  The  old  mother 
could  not  take  her  dim  eyes  off  the  face  of  her  son,  but 
sat  smiling  at  him  as  he  ate  and  rattled  on.  When  he 
rose  from  the  table  at  last,  after  eating  heartily  and 
praising  it  all,  he  said,  with  a  smile : 

"  Well,  now  I'll  just  telephone  down  to  the  express 
and  have  my  trunk  brought  up.  I've  got  a  few  little 
things  in  there  you'll  enjoy  seeing.  But  this  fellow," 
indicating  the  baby,  "  I  didn't  take  him  into  account. 
But  never  mind  :  Uncle  How.  '11  make  that  all  right." 

"  You  ain't  going  to  lay  it  up  agin  Grant,  be  you,  my 
son  ?  "  Mrs.  McLane  faltered,  as  they  went  out  into 
the  best  room. 

"  Of  course  not !  He  didn't  mean  it.  Now,  can't 
you  send  word  down  and  have  my  trunk  brought  up  ? 
Or  shall  I  have  to  walk  down  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I'll  see  somebody  goin'  down,"  said  Laura. 

"  All  right.  Now  for  the  hay-field,"  he  smiled,  and 
went  out  into  the  glorious  morning. 

The  circling  hills  were  the  same,  yet  not  the  same  as  at 
night,  a  cooler,  tenderer,  more  subdued  cloak  of  color  lay 
upon  them.  Far  down  the  valley  a  cool,  deep,  impalpable, 


Up  the  Coolly  91 

blue  mist  hung,  beneath  which  one  divined  the  river  ran, 
under  its  elms  and  basswoods  and  wild  grapevines.  On 
the  shaven  slopes  of  the  hill  cattle  and  sheep  were  feed 
ing,  their  cries  and  bells  coming  to  the  ear  with  a  sweet 
suggestiveness.  There  was  something  immemorial  in 
the  sunny  slopes  dotted  with  red  and  brown  and  gray 
cattle. 

Walking  toward  the  haymakers,  Howard  felt  a  twinge 
of  pain  and  distrust.  Would  Grant  ignore  it  all  and 
smile  — 

He  stopped  short.  He  had  not  seen  Grant  smile  in 
so  long  —  he  couldn't  quite  see  him  smiling.  He  had 
been  cold  and  bitter  for  years.  When  he  came  up  to 
them,  Grant  was  pitching  on  ;  the  old  man  was  loading, 
and  the  boy  was  raking  after. 

u  Good-morning,"  Howard  cried  cheerily ;  the  old 
man  nodded,  the  boy  stared.  Grant  growled  something, 
without  looking  up.  These  u  finical  "  things  of  saying 
good-morning  and  good-night  are  not  much  practised  in 
such  homes  as  Grant  McLane's. 

"  Need  some  help  ?  Pm  ready  to  take  a  hand.  Got 
on  my  regimentals  this  morning." 

Grant  looked  at  him  a  moment.     "  You  look  it." 

Howard  smiled.  u  Gimme  a  hold  on  that  fork,  and 
I'll  show  you.  I'm  not  so  soft  as  I  look,  now  you  bet." 

He  laid  hold  upon  the  fork  in  Grant's  hands,  who 
released  it  sullenly  and  stood  back  sneering.  Howard 
stuck  the  fork  into  the  pile  in  the  old  way,  threw  his 
left  hand  to  the  end  of  the  polished  handle,  brought  it 
down  into  the  hollow  of  his  thigh,  and  laid  out  his 


92  Main -Travelled  Roads 

strength  till  the  handle  bent  like  a  bow.  "  Oop  she 
rises ! "  he  called  laughingly,  as  the  huge  pile  began 
slowly  to  rise,  and  finally  rolled  upon  the  high  load. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  forgot  how  to  do  it,"  he  laughed,  as 
he  looked  around  at  the  boy,  who  was  eyeing  the 
tennis  suit  with  a  devouring  gaze. 

Grant  was  studying  him,  too,  but  not  in  admiration. 

u  I  shouldn't  say  you  had,"  said  the  old  man,  tugging 
at  the  forkful. 

"  Mighty  funny  to  come  out  here  and  do  a  little  of 
this.  But  if  you  had  to  come  here  and  do  it  all  the 
while,  you  wouldn't  look  so  white  and  soft  in  the  hands," 
Grant  said,  as  they  moved  on  to  another  pile.  "  Give 
me  that  fork.  You'll  be  spoiling  your  fine  clothes." 

"  Oh,  these  don't  matter.  They're  made  for  this 
kind  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  are  they  ?  I  guess  I'll  dress  in  that  kind  of  a 
rig.  What  did  that  shirt  cost  ?  I  need  one." 

"  Six  dollars  a  pair ;  but  then  it's  old." 

"And  them  pants,"  he  pursued ;  "they  cost  six  dollarst 
too,  didn't  they  ?  " 

Howard's  face  darkened.  He  saw  his  brother's  pur 
pose.  He  resented  it.  "  They  cost  fifteen  dollars,  if 
you  want  to  know,  and  the  shoes  cost  six-fifty.  This 
ring  on  my  cravat  cost  sixty  dollars,  and  the  suit  I  had 
on  last  night  cost  eighty-five.  My  suits  are  made  by 
Breckstein,  on  Fifth  Avenue,  if  you  want  to  patronize 
him,"  he  ended  brutally,  spurred  on  by  the  sneer  in  his 
brother's  eyes.  "I'll  introduce  you." 

"  Good  idea,"  said  Grant,  with  a  forced,  mocking  smile, 


Up  the  Coolly  93 

u  I  need  just  such  a  get-up  for  haying  and  corn-ploughing. 
Singular  I  never  thought  of  it.  Now  my  pants  cost 
eighty-five  cents,  s'spenders  fifteen,  hat  twenty,  shoes 
one-fifty  ;  stockin's  I  don't  bother  about." 

He  had  his  brother  at  a  disadvantage,  and  he  grew 
fluent  and  caustic  as  he  went  on,  almost  changing 
places  with  Howard,  who  took  the  rake  out  of  the  boy's 
hand,  and  followed,  raking  up  the  scatterings. 

"  Singular  we  fellers  here  are  discontented  and  mulish, 
ain't  it?  Singular  we  don't  believe  your  letters  when 
you  write,  sayin',  c  I  just  about  make  a  live  of  it '  ? 
Singular  we  think  the  country's  goin'  to  hell,  we  fellers, 
in  a  two-dollar  suit,  wadin'  around  in  the  mud  or 
sweatin'  around  in  the  hay-field,  while  you  fellers  lay 
around  New  York  and  smoke  and  wear  good  clothes 
and  toady  to  millionaires  ?  " 

Howard  threw  down  the  rake  and  folded  his  arms. 
"  My  God  !  you're  enough  to  '  make  a  man  forget  the 
same  mother  bore  us  !  " 

u  I  guess  it  wouldn't  take  much  to  make  you  forget 
that.  You  ain't  put  much  thought  on  me  nor  her  for 
ten  years." 

The  old  man  cackled,  the  boy  grinned,  and  Howard, 
sick  and  weak  with  anger  and  sorrow,  turned  away  and 
walked  down  toward  the  brook.  He  had  tried  once 
more  to  get  near  his  brother,  and  had  failed.  Oh,  God  ! 
how  miserably,  pitiably !  The  hot  blood  gushed  all 
over  him  as  he  thought  of  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  it. 

He,  a  man  associating  with  poets,  artists,  sought  after 
by  brilliant  women,  accustomed  to  deference  even  from 


94  Main -Travelled  Roads 

such  people,  to  be  sneered  at,  outfaced,  shamed,  shoved 
aside,  by  a  man  in  a  stained  hickory  shirt  and  patched 
overalls,  and  that  man  his  brother !  He  lay  down  on 
the  bright  grass,  with  the  sheep  all  around  him,  and 
writhed  and  groaned  with  the  agony  and  despair  of  it. 

And  worst  of  all,  underneath  it  was  a  consciousness 
that  Grant  was  right  in  distrusting  him.  He  had  neg 
lected  him ;  he  had  said,  "  I  guess  they're  getting  along 
all  right."  He  had  put  them  behind  him  when  the 
invitation  to  spend  summer  on  the  Mediterranean  or  in 
the  Adirondacks,  came. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?     What  can  I  do  ?  "  he  groaned. 

The  sheep  nibbled  the  grass  near  him,  the  jays  called 
pertly,  "  Shame,  shame,"  a  quail  piped  somewhere  on 
the  hillside,  and  the  brook  sung  a  soft,  soothing  melody 
that  took  away  at  last  the  sharp  edge  of  his  pain,  and 
he  sat  up  and  gazed  down  the  valley,  bright  with  the 
sun  and  apparently  filled  with  happy  and  prosperous 
people. 

Suddenly  a  thought  seized  him.  He  stood  up  so 
suddenly  that  the  sheep  fled  in  affright.  He  leaped  the 
brook,  crossed  the  flat,  and  began  searching  in  the 
bushes  on  the  hillside.  "  Hurrah !  "  he  said,  with  a 
smile. 

He  had  found  an  old  road  which  he  used  to  travel 
when  a  boy  —  a  road  that  skirted  the  edge  of  the  valley, 
now  grown  up  to  brush,  but  still  passable  for  footmen. 
As  he  ran  lightly  along  down  the  beautiful  path,  under 
oaks  and  hickories,  past  masses  of  poison-ivy,  under 
hanging  grapevines,  through  clumps  of  splendid  hazel- 


Up  the  Coolly  95 

nut  bushes  loaded  with  great  sticky,  rough,  green  burs,  ' 
his  heart  threw  off  part  of  its  load. 

How  it  all  came  back  to  him !  How  many  days, 
when  the  autumn  sun  burned  the  frost  of  the  bushes, 
had  he  gathered  hazel-nuts  here  with  his  boy  and  girl 
friends — Hugh  and  Shelley  McTurg,  Rome  Sawyer, 
Orrin  Mcllvaine,  and  the  rest !  What  had  become  of 
them  all  ?  How  he  had  forgotten  them  ! 

This  thought  stopped  him  again,  and  he  fell  into  a 
deep  muse,  leaning  against  an  oak  tree,  and  gazing  into 
the  vast  fleckless  space  above.  The  thrilling,  inscruta 
ble  mystery  of  life  fell  upon  him  like  a  blinding  light. 
Why  was  he  living  in  the  crush  and  thunder  and  mental  > 
unrest  of  a  great  city,  while  his  companions,  seemingly 
his  equals  in  powers,  were  milking  cows,  making  but 
ter,  and  growing  corn  and  wheat  in  the  silence  and 
drear  monotony  of  the  farm  ? 

His  boyish  sweethearts  !  their  names  came  back  to 
his  ear  now,  with  a  dull,  sweet  sound  as  of  faint  bells. 
He  saw  their  faces,  their  pink  sunbonnets  tipped  back 
upon  their  necks,  their  brown  ankles  flying  with  the 
swift  action  of  the  scurrying  partridge.  His  eyes  soft 
ened,  he  took  off  his  hat.  The  sound  of  the  wind  and 
the  leaves  moved  him  almost  to  tears. 

A  woodpecker  gave  a  shrill,  high-keyed,  sustained 
cry  "  Ki,  ki,  ki !  "  and  he  started  from  his  revery, 
the  dapples  of  the  sun  and  shade  falling  upon  his  lithe 
figure  as  he  hurried  on  down  the  path. 

He  came  at  last  to  a  field  of  corn  that  ran  to  the  very 
wall  of  a  large  weather-beaten  house,  the  sight  of  which 


96  Main -Travelled  Roads 

made  his  breathing  quicker.  It  was  the  place  where  he 
was  born.  The  mystery  of  his  life  began  there.  In 
the  branches  of  those  poplar  and  hickory  trees  he  had 
swung  and  sung  in  the  rushing  breeze,  fearless  as  a 
squirrel.  Here  was  the  brook  where,  like  a  larger 
kildee,  he  with  Grant  had  waded  after  crawfish,  or  had 
stolen  upon  some  wary  trout,  rough-cut  pole  in  hand. 

Seeing  someone  in  the  garden,  he  went  down  along 
the  corn-row  through  the  rustling  ranks  of  green  leaves. 
An  old  woman  was  picking  berries,  a  squat  and  shape 
less  figure. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  called  cheerily. 

"  Morgen,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  a 
startled  and  very  red  face.  She  was  German  in  every 
line  of  her  body. 

"  Ich  bin  Herr  McLane,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  So  ?  "  she  replied,  with  a  questioning  inflection. 

"  Yah ;  ich  bin  Herr  Grant's  Bruder." 

"  Ach,  so !  "  she  said,  with  a  downward  inflection. 
"  Ich  no  spick  Inglish.  No  spick  Inglis." 

"  Ich  bin  durstig,"  he  said.  Leaving  her  pans,  she 
went  with  him  to  the  house,  which  was  what  he  really 
wanted  to  see. 

"  Ich  bin  hier  geboren." 

"Ach,  so!"  She  recognized  the  little  bit  of  senti 
ment,  and  said  some  sentences  in  German  whose  gen 
eral  meaning  was  sympathy.  She  took  him  to  the  cool 
cellar  where  the  spring  had  been  trained  to  run  into  a 
tank  containing  pans  of  cream  and  milk  ;  she  gave  him 
a  cool  draught  from  a  large  tin  cup,  and  at  his  request 


Up  the  Coolly  97 

went  with  him  upstairs.  The  house  was  the  same,  but 
somehow  seemed  cold  and  empty.  It  was  clean  and 
sweet,  but  it  showed  so  little  evidence  of  being  lived  in. 
The  old  part,  which  was  built  of  logs,  was  used  as  best 
room,  and  modelled  after  the  best  rooms  of  the  neigh 
boring  "Yankee  "  homes,  only  it  was  emptier,  without  the 
cabinet  organ  and  the  rag-carpet  and  the  chromos. 

The  old  fireplace  was  bricked  up  and  plastered — the 
fireplace  beside  which,  in  the  far-off  days,  he  had  lain  on 
winter  nights,  to  hear  his  uncles  tell  tales  of  hunting,  or 
to  hear  them  play  the  violin,  great  dreaming  giants  that 
they  were. 

The  old  woman  went  out  and  left  him  sitting  there, 
the  centre  of  a  swarm  of  memories,  coming  and  going 
like  so  many  ghostly  birds  and  butterflies. 

A  curious  heartache  and  listlessness,  a  nerveless  mood 
came  on  him.  What  was  it  worth,  anyhow  —  success  ? 
Struggle,  strife,  trampling  on  some  one  else.  His  play 
crowding  out  some  other  poor  fellow's  hope.  The  hawk 
eats  the  partridge,  the  partridge  eats  the  flies  and  bugs, 
the  bugs  eai;  each  other  and  the  hawk,  when  he  in  his 
turn  is  shot  by  man.  So  in  the  world  of  business,  the 
life  of  one  man  seemed  to  him  to  be  drawn  from  the 
life  of  another  man,  each  success  to  spring  from  other 
failure*^ 

He  was  like  a  man  from  whom  all  motives  had  been 
withdrawn.  He  was  sick,  sick  to  the  heart.  Oh,  to  be 
a  boy  again !  An  ignorant  baby,  pleased  with  a  block 
and  string,  with  no  knowledge  and  no  care  of  the  great 
unknown !  To  lay  his  head  again  on  his  mother's 


98  Main -Travelled  Roads 

bosom    and    rest !       To    watch    the    flames    on    the 
hearth !  — 

Why  not  ?  Was  not  that  the  very  thing  to  do  ?  To 
buy  back  the  old  farm?  It  would  cripple  him  a  little 
for  the  next  season,  but  he  could  do  it.  Think  of  it ! 
To  see  his  mother  back  in  the  old  home,  with  the  fire 
place  restored,  the  old  furniture  in  the  sitting  room 
around  her,  and  fine  new  things  in  the  parlor ! 

His  spirits  rose  again.  Grant  couldn't  stand  out 
when  he  brought  to  him  a  deed  of  the  farm.  Surely 
his  debt  would  be  cancelled  when  he  had  seen  them  all 
back  in  the  wide  old  kitchen.  He  began  to  plan  and  to 
dream.  He  went  to  the  windows,  and  looked  out  on 
the  yard  to  see  how  much  it  had  changed. 

He'd  build  a  new  barn  and  buy  them  a  new  carriage. 
His  heart  glowed  again,  and  his  lips  softened  into  their 
usual  feminine  grace  —  lips  a  little  full  and  falling  easily 
into  curves. 

The  old  German  woman  came  in  at  length,  bringing 
some  cakes  and  a  bowl  of  milk,  smiling  broadly  and  hos 
pitably  as  she  waddled  forward. 

"  Ach  !  Goot !  "  he  said,  smacking  his  lips  over  the 
pleasant  draught. 

"  Wo  ist  ihre  goot  mann  ? "  he  inquired,  ready  for 
business. 

Ill 

When   Grant  came  in  at  noon  Mrs.  McLane  met 
him  at  the  door  with  a  tender  smile  on  her  face. 
«  Where's  Howard,  Grant  ?  " 


Up  the  Coolly  99 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  that  implied  "  I 
don't  care." 

The  dim  eyes  clouded  with  quick  tears. 

"  Ain't  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Not  since  nine  o'clock." 

"  Where  do  you  think  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  tell  yeh  I  don't  know.  He'll  take  care  of  him 
self;  don't  worry." 

He  flung  off  his  hat  and  plunged  into  the  wash-basin. 
His  shirt  was  wet  with  sweat  and  covered  with  dust  of 
the  hay  and  fragments  of  leaves.  He  splashed  his  burn 
ing  face  with  the  water,  paying  no  further  attention  to 
his  mother.  She  spoke  again,  very  gently,  in  reproof: 

"  Grant,  why  do  you  stand  out  against  Howard  so  ? " 

u  I  don't  stand  out  against  him,"  he  replied  harshly, 
pausing  with  the  towel  in  his  hands.  His  eyes  were 
hard  and  piercing.  "  But  if  he  expects  me  to  gush  over 
his  coming  back,  he's  fooled,  that's  all.  He's  left  us  to 
paddle  our  own  canoe  all  this  while,  and,  $o  far  as  I'm 
concerned,  he  can  leave  us  alone  hereafter.  He  looked 
out  for  his  precious  hide  mighty  well,  and  now  he  comes 
back  here  to  play  big  gun  and  pat  us  on  the  head.  I 
don't  propose  to  let  him  come  that  over  me." 

Mrs.  McLane  knew  too  well  the  temper  of  her  son  to 
say  any  more,  but  she  inquired  about  Howard  of  the  old 
hired  man. 

"  He  went  off  down  the  valley.  He  V  Grant  had 
s'm  words,  and  he  pulled  out  down  toward  the  old  farm. 
That's  the  last  I  see  of  'im." 

Laura  took  Howard's  part  at  the  table.     "  Pitf  jfou 


ioo  Main -Travelled  Roads 

can't  be  decent,"  she  said,  brutally  direct  as  usual. 
"  You  treat  Howard  as  if  he  was  a  —  a  —  I  do'  know 
what." 

"Will  you  let  me  alone?" 

u  No,  I  won't.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  set  by  an' 
agree  to  your  bullyraggin'  him,  you're  mistaken.  It's  a 
shame !  You're  mad  'cause  he's  succeeded  and  you 
hain't.  He  ain't  to  blame  for  his  brains.  If  you  and 
I'd  had  any,  we'd  'a'  succeeded  too.  It  ain't  our  fault, 
and  it  ain't  his ;  so  what's  the  use  ?  " 

A  look  came  into  Grant's  face  which  the  wife  knew 
meant  bitter  and  terrible  silence.  He  ate  his  dinner 
without  another  word. 

It  was  beginning  to  cloud  up.  A  thin,  whitish,  all- 
pervasive  vapor  which  meant  rain  was  dimming  the  sky, 
and  Grant  forced  his  hands  to  their  utmost  during  the 
afternoon,  in  order  to  get  most  of  the  down  hay  in  before 
the  rain  came.  He  was  pitching  from  the  load  into  the 
barn  when  Howard  came  by,  just  before  one  o'clock. 

It  was  windless  there.  The  sun  fell  through  the 
white  mist  with  undiminished  fury,  and  the  fragrant  hay 
sent  up  a  breath  that  was  hot  as  an  oven-draught. 
Grant  was  a  powerful  man,  and  there  was  something 
majestic  in  his  action  as  he  rolled  the  huge  flakes  of  hay 
through  the  door.  The  sweat  poured  from  his  face  like 
rain,  and  he  was  forced  to  draw  his  drenched  sleeve 
across  his  face  to  clear  away  the  blinding  sweat  that 
poured  into  his  eyes. 

Howard  stood  and  looked  at  him  in  silence,  remem 
bering  how  often  he  had  worked  there  in  that  furnace- 


Up  the  Coolly  101 

heat,  his  muscles  quivering,  cold  chills  running  over  his 
flesh,  red  shadows  dancing  before  his  eyes. 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door,  anxiously,  but  smiled 
as  she  saw  his  pleasant  face  and  cheerful  eyes. 

"  You're  a  little  late,  m'  son." 

Howard  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  sitting  with  his 
mother  on  the  porch,  or  under  the  trees,  lying  sprawled 
out  like  a  boy,  resting  at  times  with  sweet  forgetfulness 
of  the  whole  world,  but  feeling  a  dull  pain  whenever  he 
remembered  the  stern,  silent  man  pitching  hay  in  the  hot 
sun  on  the  torrid  side  of  the  barn. 

His  mother  did  not  say  anything  about  the  quarrel ; 
she  feared  to  reopen  it.  She  talked  mainly  of  old  times 
in  a  gentle  monotone  of  reminiscence,  while  he  listened, 
looking  up  into  her  patient  face. 

The  heat  slowly  lessened  as  the  sun  sank  down  toward 
the  dun  clouds  rising  like  a  more  distant  and  majestic 
line  of  mountains  beyond  the  western  hills.  The  sound 
of  cow-bells  came  irregularly  to  the  ear,  and  the  voices 
and  sounds  of  the  haying-fields  had  a  jocund,  pleasant 
sound  to  the  ear  of  the  city-dweller. 

He  was  very  tender.  Everything  conspired  to  make 
him  simple,  direct,  and  honest. 

"  Mother,  if  you'll  only  forgive  me  for  staying  away 
so  long,  I'll  surely  come  to  see  you  every  summer." 

She  had  nothing  to  forgive.  She  was  so  glad  to  have  him 
there  at  her  feet  —  her  great,  handsome,  successful  boy  ! 
She  could  only  love  him  and  enjoy  him  every  moment 
of  the  precious  days.  If  Grant  would  only  reconcile  him 
self  to  Howard  !  That  was  the  great  thorn  in  her  flesh. 


IO2  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Howard  told  her  how  he  had  succeeded. 

cc  It  was  luck,  mother.  First  I  met  Cook,  and  he  in 
troduced  me  to  Jake  Saulsman  of  Chicago.  Jake  asked 
me  to  go  to  New  York  with  him,  and  —  I  don't  know 
why  —  took  a  fancy  to  me  some  way.  He  introduced 
me  to  a  lot  of  the  fellows  in  New  York,  and  they  all 
helped  me  along.  I  did  nothing  to  merit  it.  Everybody 
helps  me.  Anybody  can  succeed  in  that  way." 

The  doting  mother  thought  it  not  at  all  strange  that 
they  all  helped  him. 

At  the  supper  table  Grant  was  gloomily  silent,  ignor 
ing  Howard  completely.  Mrs.  McLane  sat  and  grieved 
silently,  not  daring  to  say  a  word  in  protest.  Laura 
and  the  baby  tried  to  amuse  Howard,  and  under  cover 
of  their  talk  the  meal  was  eaten. 

The  boy  fascinated  Howard.  He  "  sawed  wood " 
with  a  rapidity  and  uninterruptedness  which  gave  alarm. 
He  had  the  air  of  coaling  up  for  a  long  voyage. 

"At  that  age,"  Howard  thought,  "  I  must  have  gripped 
my  knife  in  my  right  hand  so,  and  poured  my  tea  into 
my  saucer  so.  I  must  have  buttered  and  bit  into  a  huge 
slice  of  bread  just  so,  and  chewed  at  it  with  a  smacking 
sound  in  just  that  way.  I  must  have  gone  to  the  length 

scooping  up  honey  with  my  knife-blade." 

The  sky  was  magically  beautiful  over  all  this 
squalor  and  toil  and  bitterness,  from  five  till  seven — a 
moving  hour.  Again  the  falling  sun  streamed  in  broad 
banners  across  the  valleys ;  again  the  blue  mist  lay  far 
down  the  Coolly  over  the  river;  the  cattle  called  from 
the  hills  in  the  moistening,  sonorous  air  j  the  bells  came 


Up  the  Coolly  103 

in  a  pleasant  tangle  of  sound ;  the  air  pulsed  with  the 
deepening  chorus  of  katydids  and  other  nocturnal 
singers. 

Sweet  and  deep  as  the  very  springs  of  his  life  was  all 
this  to  the  soul  of  the  elder  brother ;  but  in  the  midst 
of  it,  the  younger  man,  in  ill-smelling  clothes  and  great 
boots  that  chafed  his  feet,  went  out  to  milk  the  cows,  — 
on  whose  legs  the  flies  and  mosquitoes  swarmed,  bloated 
with  blood,  —  to  sit  by  the  hot  side  of  a  cow  and  be 
lashed  with  her  tail  as  she  tried  frantically  to  keep  the 
savage  insects  from  eating  her  raw. 

u  The  poet  who  writes  of  milking  the  cows  does  it 
from  the  hammock,  looking  on,"  Howard  soliloquized,  as 
he  watched  the  old  man  Lewis  racing  around  the  filthy 
yard  after  one  of  the  young  heifers  that  had  kicked  over 
the  pail  in  her  agony  with  the  flies,  and  was  unwilling  to 
stand  still  and  be  eaten  alive. 

"  So,  so !  you  beast !  "  roared  the  old  man,  as  he 
finally  cornered  the  shrinking,  nearly  frantic  creature. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  look  at  the  garden  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  McLane  of  Howard;  and  they  went  out  among 
the  vegetables  and  berries. 

The  bees  were  coming  home  heavily  laden  and  crawl 
ing  slowly  into  the  hives.  The  level,  red  light  streamed 
through  the  trees,  blazed  along  the  grass,  and  lighted  a 
few  old-fashioned  flowers  into  red  and  gold  flame.  It 
was  beautiful,  and  Howard  looked  at  it  through  his  half- 
shut  eyes  as  the  painters  do,  and  turned  away  with  a 
sigh  at  the  sound  of  blows  where  the  wet  and  grimy 
men  were  assailing  the  frantic  cows. 


Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  There's  Wesley  with  your  trunk,"  Mrs.  McLane 
said,  recalling  him  to  himself. 

Wesley  helped  him  carry  the  trunk  in,  and  waved  off 
thanks. 

u  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said ;  and  Howard  knew 
the  Western  man  too  well  to  press  the  matter  of  pay. 

As  he  went  in  an  hour  later  and  stood  by  the  trunk, 
the  dull  ache  came  back  to  his  heart.  How  he  had 
failed  !  It  seemed  like  a  bitter  mockery  now  to  show 
his  gifts. 

Grant  had  come  in  from  his  work,  and  with  his  feet 
released  from  his  charing  boots,  in  his  wet  shirt  and 
milk-splashed  overalls,  sat  at  the  kitchen  table  reading  a 
newspaper  which  he  held  close  to  a  small  kerosene  lamp. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  any  one.  His  attitude,  curiously 
like  his  father's,  was  perfectly  definite  to  Howard.  It 
meant  that  from  that  time  forward  there  were  to  be  no 
words  of  any  sort  between  them.  It  meant  that  they 
were  no  longer  brothers,  not  even  acquaintances.  "  How 
inexorable  that  face  !  "  thought  Howard. 

He  turned  sick  with  disgust  and  despair,  and  would 
have  closed  his  trunk  without  showing  any  of  the 
presents,  only  for  the  childish  expectancy  of  his  mother 
and  Laura. 

"  Here's  something  for  you,  mother,"  he  said,  assum 
ing  a  cheerful  voice,  as  he  took  a  fold  of  fine  silk  from 
the  trunk  and  held  it  up.  "  All  the  way  from  Paris." 
He  laid  it  on  his  mother's  lap  and  stooped  and  kissed 
her,  and  then  turned  hastily  away  to  hide  the  tears  that 
came  to  his  own  eyes  as  he  saw  her  keen  pleasure. 


Up  the  Coolly  105 

"  And  here's  a  parasol  for  Laura.  I  don't  know  how 
L  came  to  have  that  in  here.  And  here's  General 
Grant's  autobiography  for  his  namesake,"  he  said,  with 
an  effort  at  carelessness,  and  waited  to  hear  Grant 
rise. 

"  Grant,  won't  you  come  in  ? "  asked  his  mother, 
quaveringly. 

Grant  did  not  reply  nor  move.  Laura  took  the 
handsome  volumes  out  and  laid  them  beside  him  on  the 
table.  He  simply  pushed  them  one  side  and  went  on 
with  his  reading. 

Again  that  horrible  anger  swept  hot  as  flame  over 
Howard.  He  could  have  cursed  him.  His  hands 
shook  as  he  handed  out  other  presents  to  his  mother  and 
Laura  and  the  baby.  He  tried  to  joke. 

"  I  didn't  know  how  old  the  baby  was,  so  she'll  have 
to  grow  to  some  of  these  things." 

But  the  pleasure  was  all  gone  for  him  and  for  the 
rest.  His  heart  swelled  almost  to  a  feeling  of  pain  as 
he  looked  at  his  mother.  There  she  sat  with  the 
presents  in  her  lap.  The  shining  silk  came  too  late  for 
her.  It  threw  into  appalling  relief  her  age,  her  poverty, 
her  work-weary  frame.  u  My  God  !  "  he  almost  cried 
aloud,  "  how  little  it  would  have  taken  to  lighten  her 
life !  " 

Upon  this  moment,  when  it  seemed  as  if  he  could 
endure  no  more,  came  the  smooth  voice  of  William 
McTurg : 

«  Hello,  folkses  !  " 

"  Hello,  Uncle  Bill !     Come  in." 


io6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"That's  what  we  came  for,"  laughed  a  woman's 
voice. 

"  Is  that  you,  Rose  ?  "  asked  Laura. 

"  It's  me  —  Rose,"  replied  the  laughing  girl,  as  she 
bounced  into  the  room  and  greeted  everybody  in  a 
breathless  sort  of  way. 

"  You  don't  mean  little  Rosy  ? " 

"  Big  Rosy  now,"  said  William. 

Howard  looked  at  the  handsome  girl  and  smiled, 
saying  in  a  nasal  sort  of  tone,  "  Wai,  wal !  Rosy,  how 
you've  growed  since  I  saw  yeh  !  " 

"  Oh,  look  at  all  this  purple  and  fine  linen  !  Am  I 
left  out  ? " 

Rose  was  a  large  girl  of  twenty-five  or  thereabouts, 
and  was  called  an  old  maid.  She  radiated  good-nature 
from  every  line  of  her  buxom  self.  Her  black  eyes 
were  full  of  drollery,  and  she  was  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  Howard  at  once.  She  had  been  a  teacher,  but 
that  did  not  prevent  her  from  assuming  a  homely  direct 
ness  of  speech.  Of  course  they  talked  about  old 
friends. 

"  Where's  Rachel  ?  "  Howard  inquired.  Her  smile 
faded  away. 

"  Shellie  married  Orrin  Mcllvaine.  They're  'way  out 
in  Dakota.  Shellie's  havin'  a  hard  row  of  stumps." 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

«  And  Tommy  ?  " 

u  Gone  West.  Most  all  the  boys  have  gone  West, 
That's  the  reason  there's  so  many  old  maids." 

w  You  don't  mean  to  say  —  " 


Up  the  Coolly  107 

"  I  don't  need  to  say  —  Fm  an  old  maid.  Lots  of 
the  girls  are.  It  don't  pay  to  marry  these  days.  Are 
you  married  ? " 

"  Not  yet"  His  eyes  lighted  up  again  in  a  humorous 
way. 

"  Not  yet !  That's  good  !  That's  the  way  old  maids 
all  talk." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  no  young  fellow 
comes  prowling  around  —  " 

"  Oh,  a  young  Dutchman  or  Norwegian  once  in  a 
while.  Nobody  that  counts.  Fact  is,  we're  getting  like 
Boston  — •  four  women  to  one  man  ;  and  when  you  con 
sider  that  we're  getting  more  particular  each  year,  the 
outlook  is  —  well,  it's  dreadful !  " 

"  It  certainly  is." 

"  Marriage  is  a  failure  these  days  for  most  of  us. 
We  can't  live  on  a  farm,  and  can't  get  a  living  in  the 
city,  and  there  we  are."  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
u  I  declare,  Howard,  you're  the  same  boy  you  used  to 
be.  I  ain't  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  for  all  your  success." 

"  And  you're  the  same  girl  ?  No,  I  can't  say  that. 
It  seems  to  me  you've  grown  more  than  I  have  —  I 
don't  mean  physically,  I  mean  mentally,"  he  explained, 
as  he  saw  her  smile  in  the  defensive  way  a  fleshy  girl 
has,  alert  to  ward  off  a  joke. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  talk,  Howard  telling  one 
of  his  funny  stories,  when  a  wagon  clattered  up  to 
the  door,  and  merry  voices  called  loudly  : 

u  Whoa,  there,  Sampson  !  " 

«  Hullo,  the  house  !  " 


io8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Rose  looked  at  her  father  with  a  smile  in  her  black 
eyes  exactly  like  his.  They  went  to  the  door. 

"Hullo!     What's  wanted?" 

"  Grant  McLane  live  here  ?  " 

"  Yup.     Right  here." 

A  moment  later  there  came  a  laughing,  chattering 
squad  of  women  to  the  door.  Mrs.  McLane  and  Laura 
stared  at  each  other  in  amazement.  Grant  went  out 
doors. 

Rose  stood  at  the  door  as  if  she  were  hostess. 

"Come  in,  Nettie.  Glad  to  see  yeh  —  glad  to  see 
yeh  !  Mrs.  Mcllvaine,  come  right  in  !  Take  a  seat. 
Make  yerself  to  home,  do  !  And  Mrs.  Peavey  !  Wai, 
I  never !  This  must  be  a  surprise  party.  Wai,  I 
swan !  How  many  more  o'  ye  air  they  ?  " 

All  was  confusion,  merriment,  hand-shakings  as  Rose 
introduced  them  in  her  roguish  way. 

"  Folks,  this  is  Mr.  Howard  McLane  of  New  York. 
He's  an  actor,  but  it  hain't  spoiled  him  a  bit  as  /  can 
see.  How.,  this  is  Nettie  Mcllvaine  —  Wilson  that 
was." 

Howard  shook  hands  with  Nettie,  a  tall,  plain  girl 
with  prominent  teeth. 

"  This  is  Ma  Mcllvaine." 

"  She  looks  just  the  same,"  said  Howard,  shaking 
her  hand  and  feeling  how  hard  and  work-worn  it 
was. 

And  so  amid  bustle,  chatter,  and  invitations  "  to  lay 
off  y'r  things  an'  stay  awhile,*'  the  women  got  disposed 
about  the  room  at  last.  Those  that  had  rocking-chairs 


Up  the  Coolly  109 

rocked  vigorously  to  and  fro  to  hide  their  embarrass 
ment.  They  all  talked  in  loud  voices. 

Howard  felt  nervous  under  this  furtive  scrutiny.  He 
wished  that  his  clothes  didn't  look  so  confoundedly 
dressy.  Why  didn't  he  have  sense  enough  to  go  and 
buy  a  fifteen-dollar  suit  of  diagonals  for  everyday 
wear. 

Rose  was  the  life  of  the  party.  Her  tongue  rattled 
on  in  the  most  delightful  way. 

"It's  all  Rose  and  Bill's  doin's,"  Mrs.  Mcllvaine 
explained.  "They  told  us  to  come  over  and  pick  up 
anybody  we  see  on  the  road.  So  we  did." 

Howard  winced  a  little  at  her  familiarity  of  tone. 
He  couldn't  help  it  for  the  life  of  him. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  come  to-night  because  I'm  going 
away  next  week,  and  I  wanted  to  see  how  he'd  act  at 
a  surprise-party  again,"  Rose  explained. 

"  Married,  I  s'pose  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mcllvaine,  abruptly. 

"  No,  not  yet." 

u  Good  land  !  Why,  y'  mus'  be  thirty-five,  How. 
Must  'a'  dis'p'inted  y'r  mam  not  to  have  a  young  'un 
to  call  'cr  granny." 

The  men  came  clumping  in,  talking  about  haying 
and  horses.  Some  of  the  older  ones  Howard  knew 
and  greeted,  but  the  younger  ones  were  mainly  too 
much  changed.  They  were  all  very  ill  at  ease.  Most 
of  them  were  in  compromise  dress  —  something  lying 
between  working  "  rig  "  and  Sunday  dress.  Some  of 
them  had  on  clean  shirts  and  paper  collars,  and  wore 
their  Sunday  coats  (thick  woollen  garments)  over  rough 


no  Main -Travelled  Roads 

trousers.  Most  of  them  crossed  their  legs  at  once,  and 
all  of  them  sought  the  wall  and  leaned  back  perilously 
upon  the  hind  legs  of  their  chairs,  eyeing  Howard 
slowly. 

For  the  first  few  minutes  the  presents  were  the  sub 
jects  of  conversation.  The  women  especially  spent  a 
good  deal  of  talk  upon  them. 

Howard  found  himself  forced  to  taking  the  initiative, 
so  he  inquired  about  the  crops  and  about  the  farms. 

u  I  see  you  don't  plough  the  hills  as  we  used  to. 
And  reap  !  What  a  job  it  used  to  be.  It  makes  the 
hills  more  beautiful  to  have  them  covered  with  smooth 
grass  and  cattle." 

There  was  only  dead  silence  to  this  touching  upon 
the  idea  of  beauty. 

"  I  s'pose  it  pays  reasonably  ?  " 

"  Not  enough  to  kill,"  said  one  of  the  younger  men. 
"  You  c'n  see  that  by  the  houses  we  live  in  —  that  is, 
most  of  us.  A  few  that  came  in  early  an'  got  land 
cheap,  like  Mcllvaine,  here  —  he  got  a  lift  that  the  rest 
of  us  can't  get." 

"  I'm  a  free-trader,  myself,"  said  one  young  fellow, 
blushing  and  looking  away  as  Howard  turned  and  said 
cheerily  : 

"So'm  I." 

The  rest  seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  a  tabooed  sub 
ject  —  a  subject  to  be  talked  out  of  doors,  where  a  man 
could  prance  about  and  yell  and  do  justice  to  it. 

Grant  sat  silently  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  not  saying 
a  word,  not  looking  at  his  brother. 


Up  the  Coolly  in 

"  Well,  I  don't  never  use  hot  vinegar  for  mine," 
Mrs.  Mcllvaine  was  heard  to  say.  "  I  jest  use  hot 
water,  and  I  rinse  'em  out  good,  and  set  'em  bottom-side 
up  in  the  sun.  I  do'  know  but  what  hot  vinegar  would 
be  more  cleansin'." 

Rose  had  the  younger  folks  in  a  giggle  with  a  droll 
telling  of  a  joke  on  herself. 

"  How  d'  y'  stop  'em  from  laffin'  ? " 

"  I  let  'em  laugh.  Oh,  my  school  is  a  disgrace  — 
so  one  director  says.  But  I  like  to  see  children  laugh. 
It  broadens  their  cheeks." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  hand-work."  Laura  was  showing 
the  baby's  Sunday  clothes. 

"  Goodness  Peter  !  How  do  you  find  time  to  do  so 
much  ?  " 

"  I  take  time." 

Howard,  being  the  lion  of  the  evening,  tried  his  best 
to  be  agreeable.  He  kept  near  his  mother,  because  it 
afforded  her  so  much  pride  and  satisfaction,  and  because 
he  was  obliged  to  keep  away  from  Grant,  who  had 
begun  to  talk  to  the  men.  Howard  talked  mainly  about 
their  affairs,  but  still  was  forced  more  and  more  into 
telling  of  his  life  in  the  city.  As  he  told  of  the  theatre 
and  the  concerts,  a  sudden  change  fell  upon  them ;  they 
grew  sober,  and  he  felt  deep  down  in  the  hearts  of  these 
people  a  melancholy  which  was  expressed  only  illusively 
with  little  tones  or  sighs.  Their  gayety  was  fitful. 

They  were  hungry  for  the  world,  for  life  —  these 
young  people.  Discontented,  and  yet  hardly  daring  to 
acknowledge  it  j  indeed,  few  of  them  could  have  made 


H2  Main -Travelled  Roads 

definite  statement  of  their  dissatisfaction.  The  oldei 
people  felt  it  less.  They  practically  said,  with  a  sigh  of 
pathetic  resignation  : 

"  Well,  I  don't  expect  ever  to  see  these  things  now." 

A  casual  observer  would  have  said,  "  What  a  pleasant 
bucolic  —  this  little  surprise-party  of  welcome  !  "  But 
Howard,  with  his  native  ear  and  eye,  had  no  such  pleas 
ing  illusion.  He  knew  too  well  these  suggestions  of 
despair  and  bitterness.  He  knew  that,  like  the  smile  of 
the  slave,  this  cheerfulness  was  self-defence  ;  deep  down 
was  another  unsatisfied  ego. 

Seeing  Grant  talking  with  a  group  of  men  over  by  the 
kitchen  door,  he  crossed  over  slowly  and  stood  listening. 
Wesley  Cosgrove  —  a  tall,  raw-boned  young  fellow  with 
a  grave,  almost  tragic  face  —  was  saying  : 

"  Of  course  I  ain't.  Who  is  ?  A  man  that's  satis 
fied  to  live  as  we  do  is  a  fool." 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  said  Grant,  without  seeing 
Howard,  "  a  man  can't  get  out  of  it  during  his  lifetime, 
and  /  don't  know  that  he'll  have  any  chance  in  the 
next  —  the  speculator  '11  be  there  ahead  of  us." 

The  rest  laughed,  but  Grant  went  on  grimly : 

"  Ten  years  ago  Wess,  here,  could  have  got  land  in 
Dakota  pretty  easy,  but  now  it's  about  all  a  feller's  life's 
worth  to  try  it.  I  tell  you  things  seem  shuttin'  down  on 
us  fellers." 

"  Plenty  o'  land  to  rent,"  suggested  some  one. 

"  Yes,  in  terms  that  skin  a  man  alive.  More  than 
that,  farmin'  ain't  so  free  a  life  as  it  used  to  be.  This 
cattle-raisin'  and  butter-makin'  makes  a  nigger  of  a  man. 


Up  the  Coolly  113 

Binds  him  right  down  to  the  grindstone  and  he  gets 
nothin' out  of  it  —  that's  what  rubs  it  in.  He  simply 
wallers  around  in  the  manure  for  somebody  else.  I'd 
like  to  know  what  a  man's  life  is  worth  who  lives 
as  we  do  ?  How  much  higher  is  it  than  the  lives  the 
niggers  used  to  live  ?  " 

These  brutally  bald  words  made  Howard  thrill  with 
emotion  like  the  reading  of  some  great  tragic  poem.  A 
silence  fell  on  the  group. 

"That's  the  God's  truth,  Grant,"  said  young  Cos- 
grove,  after  a  pause. 

"A  man  like  me  is  helpless,"  Grant  was  saying. 
"  Just  like  a  fly  in  a  pan  of  molasses.  There's  no 
escape  for  him.  The  more  he  tears  around  the  more 
liable  he  is  to  rip  his  legs  off." 

"  What  can  he  do  ?  " 

«  Nothin'." 

The  men  listened  in  silence. 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  talk  politics  all  night !  "  cried  Rose, 
breaking  in.  "  Come,  let's  have  a  dance.  Where's 
that  fiddle  ? " 

"  Fiddle  !  ' ''  cried  Howard,  glad  of  a  chance  to  laugh. 
"  Well,  now  !  Bring  out  that  fiddle.  Is  it  William's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  pap's  old  fiddle." 

"  O  Gosh  !  he  don't  want  to  hear  me  play,"  protested 
William.  "  He's  heard  s'  many  fiddlers." 

"  Fiddlers  !  I've  heard  a  thousand  violinists,  but  not 
fiddlers.  Come,  give  us  '  Honest  John.' ' 

William  took  the  fiddle  in  his  work-calloused  and 
crooked  hands  and  began  tuning  it.  The  group  at  the 


H4  Main -Travelled  Roads 

kitchen  door  turned  to  listen,  their  faces  lighting  up  a 
little.  Rose  tried  to  get  a  "  set "  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  good  land  !  "  said  some.  "  We're  all  tuckered 
out.  What  makes  you  so  anxious  ?  " 

"  She  wants  a  chance  to  dance  with  the  New  Yorker." 

"  That's  it,  exactly,"  Rose  admitted. 

"  Wai,  if  you'd  churned  and  mopped  arid  cooked  for 
hayin'  hands  as  I  have  to-day,  you  wouldn't  be  so  full 
o'  nonsense." 

"  Oh,  bother  !  Life's  short.  Come,  quick,  get  Bettie 
out.  Come,  Wess,  never  mind  your  hobby-horse." 

By  incredible  exertion  she  got  a  set  on  the  floor,  and 
William  got  the  fiddle  in  tune.  Howard  looked  across 
at  Wesley,  and  thought  the  change  in  him  splendidly 
dramatic.  His  face  was  lighted  with  a  timid,  depre 
cating,  boyish  smile.  Rose  could  do  anything  with  him. 

William  played  some  of  the  old  tunes  that  had  a  thou 
sand  associated  memories  in  Howard's  brain,  memories 
of  harvest-moons,  of  melon-feasts,  and  of  clear,  cold 
winter  nights.  As  he  danced,  his  eyes  filled  with  a 
tender  light.  He  came  closer  to  them  all  than  he  had 
been  able  to  do  before.  Grant  had  gone  out  into  the 
kitchen. 

After  two  or  three  sets  had  been  danced,  the  company 
took  seats  and  could  not  be  stirred  again.  So  Laura 
and  Rose  disappeared  for  a  few  moments,  and  returning, 
served  strawberries  and  cream,  which  Laura  said  she 
"  just  happened  to  have  in  the  house." 

And  then  William  played  again.  His  fingers,  now 
grown  more  supple,  brought  out  clearer,  firmer  tones. 


Up  the  Coolly  115 

As  he  played,  silence  fell  on  these  people.  The  magic 
of  music  sobered  every  face ;  the  women  looked  older 
and  more  careworn,  the  men  slouched  sullenly  in  their 
chairs,  or  leaned  back  against  the  wall. 

It  seemed  to  Howard  as  if  the  spirit  of  tragedy  had 
entered  this  house.  Music  had  always  been  William's 
unconscious  expression  of  his  unsatisfied  desires.  He 
was  never  melancholy  except  when  he  played.  Then 
his  eyes  grew  sombre,  his  drooping  face  full  of 
shadows. 

He  played  on  slowly,  softly,  wailing  Scotch  tunes  and 
mournful  Irish  love  songs.  He  seemed  to  find  in  these 
melodies,  and  especially  in  a  wild,  sweet,  low-keyed 
negro  song,  some  expression  for  his  indefinable  inner 
melancholy. 

He  played  on,  forgetful  of  everybody,  his  long  beard 
sweeping  the  violin,  his  toil-worn  hands  marvellously 
obedient  to  his  will. 

At  last  he  stopped,  looked  up  with  a  faint,  apologetic 
smile,  and  said  with  a  sigh  : 

u  Well,  folkses,  time  to  go  home." 

The  going  was  quiet.  Not  much  laughing.  Howard 
stood  at  the  door  and  said  good-night  to  them  all,  his 
heart  very  tender. 

"  Come  and  see  us,"  they  said. 

"  I  will,"  he  replied  cordially.  "  I'll  try  and  get 
around  to  see  everybody,  and  talk  over  old  times,  before 
I  go  back." 

After  the  wagons  had  driven  out  of  the  yard,  Howard 
turned  and  put  his  arm  about  his  mother's  neck. 


n6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

«  Tired  ? " 

"A  little." 

"  Well,  now  good  night.     I'm  going  for  a  little  stroll." 

His  brain  was  too  active  to  sleep.  He  kissed  his 
mother  good-night,  and  went  out  into  the  road,  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  the  cool  moist  wind  on  his  hair. 

It  was  very  dark,  the  stars  being  partly  hidden  by  a 
thin  vapor.  On  each  side  the  hills  rose,  every  line 
familiar  as  the  face  of  an  old  friend.  A  whippoorwill 
called  occasionally  from  the  hillside,  and  the  spasmodic 
jangle  of  a  bell  now  and  then  told  of  some  cow's  battle 
with  the  mosquitoes. 

As  he  walked,  he  pondered  upon  the  tragedy  he  had 
rediscovered  in  these  people's  lives.  Out  here  under 
the  inexorable  spaces  of  the  sky,  a  deep  distaste  of  his 
own  life  took  possession  of  him.  He  felt  like  giving  it 
all  up.  He  thought  of  the  infinite  tragedy  of  these 
lives  which  the  world  loves  to  call  peaceful  and  pastoral. 
His  mind  went  out  in  the  aim  to  help  them.  What 
could  he  do  to  make  life  better  worth  living  ?  Nothing. 

They  must  live  and  die  practically  as  he  saw  them 
to-night. 

And  yet  he  knew  this  was  a  mood,  and  that  in  a  few 
hours  the  love  and  the  habit  of  life  would  come  back 
upon  him  and  upon  them ;  that  he  would  go  back  to 
the  city  in  a  few  days ;  that  these  people  would  live  on 
and  make  the  best  of  it. 

"  /'//  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his 
thought  came  back  to  his  mother  and  Grant. 


Up  the  Coolly  117 


IV 


The  next  day  was  a  rainy  day ;  not  a  shower,  but  a 
steady  rain  —  an  unusual  thing  in  midsummer  in  the 
West.  A  cold,  dismal  day  in  the  fireless,  colorless 
,5armhouses.  It  came  to  Howard  in  that  peculiar 
reaction  which  surely  comes  during  a  visit  of  this 
character,  when  thought  is  a  weariness,  when  the  visitor 
longs  for  his  own  familiar  walls  and  pictures  and  books, 
and  longs  to  meet  his  friends,  feeling  at  the  same  time 
the  tragedy  of  life  which  makes  friends  nearer  and  more 
congenial  than  blood-relations. 

Howard  ate  his  breakfast  alone,  save  Baby  and  Laura 
its  mother  going  about  the  room.  Baby  and  mother 
alike  insisted  on  feeding  him  to  death.  Already  dyspep 
tic  pangs  were  setting  in. 

"  Now  ain't  there  something  more  I  can  — " 

"  Good  heavens !  No  !  "  he  cried  in  dismay.  "  I'm 
likely  to  die  of  dyspepsia  now.  This  honey  and  milk, 
and  these  delicious  hot  biscuits  — " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  ain't  much  like  the  breakfasts  you  have 
in  the  city." 

"  Weil,  no,  it  ain't,"  he  confessed.  "  But  this  is 
the  kind  a  man  needs  when  he  lives  in  the  open  air." 

She  sat  down  opposite  him,  with  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  her  chin  in  her  palm,  her  eyes  full  of 
shadows. 

"  I'd  like  to  go  to  a  city  once.  I  never  saw  a  town 
bigger'n  La  Crosse.  I've  never  seen  a  play,  but  I've 


n8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

read  of  'em  in  the  magazines.  It  must  be  wonderful ; 
they  say  they  have  wharves  and  real  ships  coming  up  to 
the  wharf,  and  people  getting  off  and  on.  How  do  they 
do  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  too  long  a  story  to  tell.  It's  a  lot  of 
machinery  and  paint  and  canvas.  If  I  told  you  how  it 
was  done,  you  wouldn't  enjoy  it  so  well  when  you  come 
on  and  see  it." 

"  Do  you  ever  expect  to  see  me  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  Why  not  ?  I  expect  Grant  to  come 
on  and  bring  you  all  some  day,  especially  Tonikins  here. 
Tonikins,  you  hear,  sir  ?  I  expect  you  to  come  on  you' 
forf  birfday,  sure."  He  tried  thus  to  stop  the  woman's 
gloomy  confidence. 

"  I  hate  farm-life,"  she  went  on  with  a  bitter  inflec 
tion.  "  It's  nothing  but  fret,  fret,  and  work  the  whole 
time,  never  going  any  place,  never  seeing  anybody  but  a 
lot  of  neighbors  just  as  big  fools  as  you  are.  I  spend 
my  time  fighting  flies  and  washing  dishes  and  churning. 
I'm  sick  of  it  all." 

Howard  was  silent.  What  could  he  say  to  such  an 
indictment  ?  The  ceiling  swarmed  with  flies  which  the 
cold  rain  had  driven  to  seek  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen. 
The  gray  rain  was  falling  with  a  dreary  sound  outside, 
and  down  the  kitchen  stove-pipe  an  occasional  drop  fell 
on  the  stove  with  a  hissing,  angry  sound. 

The  young  wife  went  on  with  a  deeper  note : 

u  I  lived  in  La  Crosse  two  years,  going  to  school, 
and  I  know  a  little  something  of  what  city  life  is.  If 
I  was  a  man,  I  bet  I  wouldn't  wear  my  life  out  on  a 


Up  the  Coolly  119 

farm,  as  Grant  does.  I'd  get  away  and  Pd  do  some 
thing.  I  wouldn't  care  what,  but  Pd  get  away." 

There  was  a  certain  volcanic  energy  back  of  all  the 
woman  said,  that  made  Howard  feel  she  would  make 
the  attempt.  She  did  not  know  that  the  struggle  for  a 
place  to  stand  on  this  planet  was  eating  the  heart  and 
soul  out  of  men  and  women  in  the  city^ |  just 'as  in  the 
country.  But  he  could  say  nothing.  If  he  had  said  in 
conventional  phrase,  sitting  there  in  his  soft  clothing, 
"  We  must  make  the  best  of  it  all,"  the  woman  could 
justly  have  thrown  the  dish-cloth  in  his  face.  He  could 
say  nothing. 

"  I  was  a  fool  for  ever  marrying,"  she  went  on,  while 
the  baby  pushed  a  chair  across  the  room.  "  I  made  a 
decent  living  teaching,  I  was  free  to  come  and  go,  my 
money  was  my  own.  Now  I'm  tied  right  down  to  a 
churn  or  a  dish-pan,  I  never  have  a  cent  of  my  own. 
He's  growlin'  'round  half  the  time,  and  there's  no  chance 
of  his  ever  being  different." 

She  stopped  with  a  bitter  sob  in  her  throat.  She 
forgot  she  was  talking  to  her  husband's  brother.  She 
was  conscious  only  of  his  sympathy. 

As  if  a  great  black  cloud  had  settled  down  upon  him, 
Howard  felt  it  all  —  the  horror,  hopelessness,  imminent 
tragedy  of  it  all.  The  glory  of  nature,  the  bounty  and 
splendor  of  the  sky,  only  made  it  the  more  benumbing. 
He  thought  of  a  sentence  Millet  once  wrote : 

"  I  see  very  well  the  aureole  of  the  dandelions,  and 
the  sun  also,  far  down  there  behind  the  hills,  flinging  his 
glory  upon  the  clouds.  But  not  alone  that  —  I  see  in 


I2o  Main -Travelled  Roads 

the  plains  the  smoke  of  the  tired  horses  at  the  plough, 
or,  on  a  stony-hearted  spot  of  ground,  a  back-broken 
man  trying  to  raise  himself  upright  for  a  moment  to 
breathe.  The  tragedy  is  surrounded  by  glories  —  that 
is  no  invention  of  mine." 

Howard  arose  abruptly  and  went  back  to  his  little 
bedroom,  where  he  walked  up  and  down  the  floor  till  he 
was  calm  enough  to  write,  and  then  he  sat  down  and 
poured  it  all  out  to  "Dearest  Margaret,"  and  his  first 
sentence  was  this : 

"  If  it  were  not  for  you  (just  to  let  you  know  the 
mood  I'm  in)  —  if  it  were  not  for  you,  and  I  had  the 
world  in  my  hands,  I'd  crush  it  like  a  puff-ball ;  evil  so 
predominates,  suffering  is  so  universal  and  persistent, 
happiness  so  fleeting  and  so  infrequent." 

He  wrote  on  for  two  hours,  and  by  the  time  he  had 
sealed  and  directed  several  letters  he  felt  calmer,  but 
still  terribly  depressed.  The  rain  was  still  falling, 
sweeping  down  from  the  half-seen  hills,  wreathing  the 
wooded  peaks  with  a  gray  garment  of  mist,  and  filling 
the  valley  with  a  whitish  cloud. 

It  fell  around  the  house  drearily.  It  ran  down  into 
the  tubs  placed  to  catch  it,  dripped  from  the  mossy 
pump,  and  drummed  on  the  upturned  milk-pails,  and 
upon  the  brown  and  yellow  beehives  under  the  maple 
trees.  The  chickens  seemed  depressed,  but  the  irrepress 
ible  bluejay  screamed  amid  it  all,  with  the  same  insolent 
spirit,  his  plumage  untarnished  by  the  wet.  The  barn 
yard  showed  a  horrible  mixture  of  mud  and  mire, 
through  which  Howard  caught  glimpses  of  the  men, 


Up  the  Coolly  121 

slumping  to  and  fro  without  more  additional  protection 
than  a  ragged  coat  and  a  shapeless  felt  hat. 

In  the  sitting  room  where  his  mother  sat  sewing  there 
was  not  an  ornament,  save  the  etching  he  had  brought. 
The  clock  stood  on  a  small  shelf,  its  dial  so  much 
defaced  that  one  could  not  tell  the  time  of  day ;  and 
when  it  struck,  it  was  with  noticeably  disproportionate 
deliberation,  as  if  it  wished  to  correct  any  mistake  into 
which  the  family  might  have  fallen  by  reason  of  its 
illegible  dial. 

The  paper  on  the  walls  showed  the  first  concession 
of  the  Puritans  to  the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  and  was  made 
up  of  a  heterogeneous  mixture  of  flowers  of  unheard-of 
shapes  and  colors,  arranged  in  four  different  ways  along 
the  wall.  There  were  no  books,  no  music,  and  only  a 
few  newspapers  in  sight  —  a  bare,  blank,  cold,  drab- 
colored  shelter  from  the  rain,  not  a  home.  Nothing 
cosey,  nothing  heart-warming ;  a  grim  and  horrible  shed, 

u  What  are  they  doing  ?  It  can't  be  they're  at  work 
such  a  day  as  this,"  Howard  said,  standing  at  the  window. 

"They  find  plenty  to  do,  even  on  rainy  days,"  an 
swered  his  mother.  "  Grant  always  has  some  job  to 
set  the  men  at.  It's  the  only  way  to  live." 

"  I'll  go  out  and  see  them."  He  turned  suddenly. 
"  Mother,  why  should  Grant  treat  me  so  ?  Have  I 
deserved  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  McLane  sighed  in  pathetic  hopelessness.  "  I 
don't  know,  Howard.  I'm  worried  about  Grant.  He 
gets  more  an'  more  down-hearted  an'  gloomy  every 
day.  Seems  if  he'd  go  crazy.  He  don't  care  how  he 


122  Main -Travelled  Roads 

looks  any  more,  won't  dress  up  on  Sunday.  Days  an 
days  he'll  go  aroun'  not  sayin'  a  word.  I  was  in  hopes 
you  could  help  him,  Howard." 

"  My  coming  seems  to  have  had  an  opposite  effect. 
He  hasn't  spoken  a  word  to  me,  except  when  he  had 
to,  since  I  came.  Mother,  what  do  you  say  to  going 
nome  with  me  to  New  York  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that !  "  she  cried  in  terror.  "  I 
couldn't  live  in  a  big  city  —  never  !  " 

"  There  speaks  the  truly  rural  mind,"  smiled  Howard 
at  his  mother,  who  was  looking  up  at  him  through  her 
glasses  with  a  pathetic  forlornness  which  sobered  him 
again.  "  Why,  mother,  you  could  live  in  Orange,  New 
Jersey,  or  out  in  Connecticut,  and  be  just  as  lonesome 
as  you  are  here.  You  wouldn't  need  to  live  in  the  city. 
I  could  see  you  then  every  day  or  two." 

u  Well,  I  couldn't  leave  Grant  an'  the  baby,  anyway," 
she  replied,  not  realizing  how  one  could  live  in  New 
Jersey  and  do  business  daily  in  New  York. 

"  Well,  then,  how  would  you  like  to  go  back  into  the 
old  house  ? " 

The  patient  hands  fell  to  the  lap,  the  dim  eyes  fixed 
in  searching  glance  on  his  face.  There  was  a  wistful 
cry  in  the  voice. 

"  Oh,  Howard  !     Do  you  mean  —  " 

He  came  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  put  his  arm  about 
her  and  hugged  her  hard.  "  I  mean,  you  dear,  good* 
patient,  work-weary  old  mother,  I'm  going  to  buy  back 
the  old  farm  and  put  you  in  it." 

There  was  no  refuge  for  her  now  except  in  tears,  and 


Up  the  Coolly  123 

she  put  up  her  thin,  trembling  old  hands  about  his  neck, 
and  cried  in  that  easy,  placid,  restful  way  age  has. 

Howard  could  not  speak.  His  throat  ached  with  re 
morse  and  pity.  He  saw  his  forgetfulness  of  them  all 
once  more  without  relief,  —  the  black  thing  it  was  ! 

"There,  there,  mother,  don't  cry ! "  he  said,  torn  with 
anguish  by  her  tears.  Measured  by  man's  tearlessness, 
her  weeping  seemed  terrible  to  him.  u  I  didn't  realize 
how  things  were  going  here.  It  was  all  my  fault  —  or, 
at  least,  most  of  it.  Grant's  letter  didn't  reach  me.  I 
thought  you  were  still  on  the  old  farm.  But  no  matter; 
it's  all  over  now.  Come,  don't  cry  any  more,  mother 
dear.  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you  now." 

It  had  been  years  since  the  poor,  lonely  woman  had 
felt  such  warmth  of  love.  Her  sons  had  been  like  her 
husband,  chary  of  expressing  their  affection ;  and  like 
most  Puritan  families,  there  was  little  of  caressing  among 
them.  Sitting  there  with  the  rain  on  the  roof  and  driv 
ing  through  the  trees,  they  planned  getting  back  into  the 
old  house.  Howard's  plan  seemed  to  her  full  of  splen 
dor  and  audacity.  She  began  to  understand  his  power 
and  wealth  now,  as  he  put  it  into  concrete  form  before 
her. 

"  I  wish  I  could  eat  Thanksgiving  dinner  there  with 
you  "  he  said  at  last,  "but  it  can't  be  thought  of.  How 
ever,  I'll  have  you  all  in  there  before  I  go  home.  I'm 
going  out  now  and  tell  Grant.  Now  don't  worry  any 
more ;  I'm  going  to  fix  it  all  up  with  him,  sure."  He 
gave  her  a  parting  hug. 

Laura  advised  him  not  to  attempt  to  get  to  the  barn  5 


124  Main -Travelled  Roads 

but  as  he  persisted  in  going,  she  hunted  up  an  old  rubber 
coat  for  him.  ''You'll  mire  down  and  spoil  your  shoes,'* 
she  said,  glancing  at  his  neat  calf  gaiters. 

"  Darn  the  difference  !  "  he  laughed  in  his  old  way. 
"  Besides,  I've  got  rubbers." 

"  Better  go  round  by  the  fence,"  she  advised,  as  he 
stepped  out  into  the  pouring  rain. 

How  wretchedly  familiar  it  all  was !  The  miry  cow- 
yard,  with  the  hollow  trampled  out  around  the  horse- 
trough,  the  disconsolate  hens  standing  under  the  wagons 
and  sheds,  a  pig  wallowing  across  its  sty,  and  for  at 
mosphere  the  desolate,  falling  rain.  It  was  so  familiar 
he  felt  a  pang  of  the  old  rebellious  despair  which  seized 
him  on  such  days  in  his  boyhood. 

Catching  up  courage,  he  stepped  out  on  the  grass, 
opened  the  gate  and  entered  the  barn-yard.  A  narrow 
ribbon  of  turf  ran  around  the  fence,  on  which  he  could 
walk  by  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  rough  boards.  In 
this  way  he  slowly  made  his  way  around  the  periphery, 
and  came  at  last  to  the  open  barn-door  without  much 
harm. 

It  was  a  desolate  interior.  In  the  open  floor-way 
Grant,  seated  upon  a  half-bushel,  was  mending  a  harness. 
The  old  man  was  holding  the  trace  in  his  hard  brown 
hands ;  the  boy  was  lying  on  a  wisp  of  hay.  It  wr,s  a 
small  barn,  and  poor  at  that.  There  was  a  bad  smell, 
as  of  dead  rats,  about  it,  and  the  rain  fell  through  the 
shingles  here  and  there.  To  the  right,  and  below,  the 
horses  stood,  looking  up  with  their  calm  and  beautiful 
eyes,  in  which  the  whole  scene  was  idealized. 


Up  the  Coolly  125 

Grant  looked  up  an  instant,  and  then  went  on  with 
his  work. 

"  Did  yeh  wade  through  ?  "  grinned  Lewis,  exposing 
his  broken  teeth. 

"  No,  I  kinder  circumambiated  the  pond."-  He  sat 
down  on  the  little  tool-box  near  Grant.  "Your  barn 
is  a  good  deal  like  that  in  'The  Arkansaw  Traveller/ 
Needs  a  new  roof,  Grant."  His  voice  had  a  pleas 
ant  sound,  full  of  the  tenderness  of  the  scene  through 
which  he  had  just  been.  uln  fact,  you  need  a  new 
barn." 

u  I  need  a  good  many  things  more'n  I'll  ever  get," 
Grant  replied  shortly. 

"  How  long  did  you  say  you'd  been  on  this  farm  ?  " 

"  Three  years  this  fall." 

"  I  don't  s'pose  you've  been  able  to  think  of  buying 
—  Now  hold  on,  Grant,"  he  cried,  as  Grant  threw  his 
head  back.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  get  mad  again  ! 
Wait  till  you  see  what  I'm  driving  at." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you're  drivin'  at,  and  I  don't  care. 
All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  let  us  alone.  That  ought  to 
be  easy  enough  for  you." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  didn't  get  your  letter.  I  didn't  know 
you'd  lost  the  old  farm."  Howard  was  determined  not 
to  quarrel.  "  I  didn't  suppose  —  " 

"  You  might  'a'  come  to  see." 

"  Well,  I'll  admit  that.  All  I  can  say  in  excuse  is 
that  since  I  got  to  managing  plays  I've  kept  looking 
ahead  to  making  a  big  hit  and  getting  a  barrel  of  money 
—just  as  the  old  miners  used  to  hope  and  watch.  Be- 


126  Main -Travelled  Roads 

sides,  you  don't  understand  how  much  pressure  there  is 
on  me.  A  hundred  different  people  pulling  and  hauling 
to  have  me  go  here  or  go  there,  or  do  this  or  do  that. 
When  it  isn't  yachting,  it's  canoeing,  or — " 

He  stopped.  His  heart  gave  a  painful  t/irob,  and  a 
shiver  ran  through  him.  Again  he  saw  his  life,  so  rich, 
so  bright,  so  free,  set  over  against  the  routine  life  in  the 
little  low  kitchen,  the  barren  sitting  room,  and  this  still 
more  horrible  barn.  Why  should  his  brother  sit  there 
in  wet  and  grimy  clothing,  mending  a  broken  trace, 
while  he  enjoyed  all  the  light  and  civilization  of  the  age  ? 

He  looked  at  Grant's  fine  figure,  his  great,  strong 
face ;  recalled  his  deep,  stern,  masterful  voice.  "  Am 
I  so  much  superior  to  him  ?  Have  not  circumstances 
made  me  and  destroyed  him  ?  " 

"  Grant,  for  God's  sake,  don't  sit  there  like  that  ! 
I'll  admit  I've  been  negligent  and  careless.  I  can't 
understand  it  all  myself.  But  let  me  do  something  for 
you  now.  I've  sent  to  New  York  for  five  thousand 
dollars.  I've  got  terms  on  the  old  farm.  Let  me  see 
you  all  back  there  once  more  before  I  return." 

u  I  don't  want  any  of  your  charity." 

"  It  ain't  charity.  It's  only  justice  to  you."  He 
rose.  "  Come,  now,  let's  get  at  an  understanding, 
Grant.  I  can't  go  on  this  way.  I  can't  go  back  to 
New  York  and  leave  you  here  like  this." 

Grant  rose  too.  "  I  tell  you,  I  don't  ask  your  help. 
You  can't  fix  this  thing  up  with  money.  If  you've  got 
more  brains'n  I  have,  why,  it's  all  right.  I  ain't  got 
any  right  to  take  anything  that  I  don't  earn," 


Up  the  Coolly  127 

"  But  you  don't  get  what  you  do  earn.  It  ain't  your 
fault.  I  begin  to  see  it  now.  Being  the  oldest,  I  had 
the  best  chance.  I  was  going  to  town  to  school  while 
you  were  ploughing  and  husking  corn.  Of  course  I 
thought  you'd  be  going  soon  yourself.  I  had  three  years 
the  start  of  you.  If  you'd  been  in  my  place,  you  might 
have  met  a  man  like  Cook,  you  might  have  gone  to  New 
York  and  have  been  where  I  am." 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now.     So  drop  it." 

"  But  it  must  be  helped! "  Howard  said,  pacing  about, 
his  hands  in  his  coat-pockets.  Grant  had  stopped  work, 
and  was  gloomily  looking  out  of  the  door  at  a  pig  nosing 
in  the  mud  for  stray  grains  of  wheat  at  the  granary 
door.  The  old  man  and  the  boy  quietly  withdrew. 

"  Good  God !  I  see  it  all  now,"  Howard  burst  out 
in  an  impassioned  tone.  "  I  went  ahead  with  my  educa 
tion,  got  my  start  in  life,  then  father  died,  and  you  took 
up  his  burdens.  Circumstances  made  me  and  crushed 
you.  That's  alP~triere  is  about  that.  Luck  made  me 
and  cheated  you.  It  ain't  right." 

His  voice  faltered.  Both  men  were  now  oblivious 
of  their  companions  and  of  the  scene.  Both  were  think 
ing  of  the  days  when  they  both  planned  great  things  in 
the  way  of  education,  two  ambitious,  dreamful  boys. 

"  I  used  to  think  of  you,  Grant,  when  I  pulled  out 
Monday  morning  in  my  best  suit  —  cost  fifteen  dollars 
in  those  days."  He  smiled  a  little  at  the  recollection. 
"  While  you  in  overalls  and  an  old  l  wammus '  were 
going  out  into  the  field  to  plough,  or  husk  corn  in  the 
mud.  It  made  me  feel  uneasy,  but,  as  I  said,  I  kept 


128  Main -Travelled  Roads 

saying  to  myself,  '  His  turn'll  come  in  a  year  or  two.' 
But  it  didn't." 

His  voice  choked.  He  walked  to  the  door,  stood  a 
moment,  came  back.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  I  tell  you,  old  man,  many  a  time  in  my  boarding- 
house  down  to  the  city,  when  I  thought  of  the  jolly 
times  I  was  having,  my  heart  hurt  me.  But  I  said, 
1  It's  no  use  to  cry.  Better  go  on  and  do  the  best  you 
can,  and  then  help  them  afterward.  There'll  only  be 
one  more  miserable  member  of  the  family  if  you  stay  at 
home.'  Besides,  it  seemed  right  to  me  to  have  first 
chance.  But  I  never  thought  you'd  be  shut  off,  Grant. 
If  I  had,  I  never  would  have  gone  on.  Come,  old  man, 
I  want  you  to  believe  that."  His  voice  was  very  tendei 
now  and  almost  humble. 

I  u  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you  for  that,  How.,"  said 
Grant,  slowly.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  How 
ard  by  his  boyish  nickname.  His  voice  was  softer,  too, 
and  higher  in  key.  But  he  looked  steadily  away. 

"  I  went  to  New  York.     People  liked  my  work.     I 
{    ,    was  very  successful,  Grant ;  more  successful  than  you 


-*  realize.  I  could  have  helped  you  at  any  time.  There's 
*  no  use  lying  about  it.  And  I  ought  to  have  done  it ; 
but  some  way  —  it's  no  excuse,  I  don't  mean  it  for  an 
excuse,  only  an  explanation  —  some  way  I  got  in  with 
the  boys.  I  don't  mean  I  was  a  drinker  and  all  that. 
But  I  bought  pictures  and  kept  a  horse  and  a  yacht,  and 
of  course  I  had  to  pay  my  share  of  all  expeditions,  and 
—  oh,  what's  the  use  !  " 

He  broke  off,  turned,  and  threw  his  open  palms  out 


Up  the  Coolly  129 

toward  his  brother,  as  if  throwing  aside  the  last  attempt 
at  an  excuse. 

"  I  did  neglect  you,  and  it's  a  damned  shame  !  and 
I  ask  your  forgiveness.  Come,  old  man !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Grant  slowly  approached 
and  took  it.  There  was  a  little  silence.  Then  How 
ard  went  on,  his  voice  trembling,  the  tears  on  his  face. 

"  I  want  you  to  let  me,  help  you,  old  man.  That's 
the  way  to  forgive  me.  Will  you  ?  " 

u  Yes,  if  you  can  help  me." 

Howard  squeezed  his  hand.  "That's  all  right,  old 
man.  Now  you  make  me  a  boy  again.  Course  I  can 
help  you.  I've  got  ten  —  " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  How."  Grant's  voice  was  very 
grave.  "  Money  can't  give  me  a  chance  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  life  ain't  worth  very  much  to  me.  I'm  too 
old  to  take  a  new  start.  I'm  a  dead  failure.  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  life's  a  failure  for  ninety-nine  per 
cent  of  us.  You  can't  help  me  now.  It's  too  late." 

The  two  men  stood  there,  face  to  face,  hands  clasped, 
the  one  fair-skinned,  full-lipped,  handsome  in  his  neat 
suit ;  the  other  tragic,  sombre  in  his  softened  mood,  his 
large,  long,  rugged  Scotch  face  bronzed  with  sun  and 
scarred  with  wrinkles  that  had  histories,  like  sabre-cuts 
on  a  veteran,  the  record  of  his  battles. 

K 


AMONG   THE   CORN-ROWS 

f<But  the  road  sometimes  passes  a  rich 
meadow,  where  the  songs  of  larks  and 
bobolinks  and  blackbirds  are  tangled3* 


AMONG  THE   CORN-ROWS 

ROB  held  up  his  hands,  from  which  the  dough  de 
pended  in  ragged  strings. 

"  Biscuits,"  he  said,  with  an  elaborate  working  01  his 
jaws,  intended  to  convey  the  idea  that  they  were  going 
to  be  specially  delicious. 

Seagraves  laughed,  but  did  not  enter  the  shanty  door. 
"  How  do  you  like  baching  it  ?  " 

u  Oh,  don't  mention  it !  "  entreated  Rob,  mauling  the 
dough  again.  "  Come  in  an'  sit  down.  What  in  thun 
der  y'  standin'  out  there  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather  be  where  I  can  see  the  prairie. 
Great  weather  !  " 

"  Im-mense  ! " 

"  How  goes  breaking  ?  " 

"  Tip-top  !  A  leetle  dry  now  ;  but  the  bulls  pull  the 
plough  through  two  acres  a  day.  How's  things  in 
Boomtown  ?  " 

u  Oh,  same  old  grind." 

"  Judge  still  lyin'  ?  " 

«  Still  at  it.'7 

"  Major  Mullens  still  swearin'  to  it  ? " 

"You  hit  it  like  a  mallet.  Railroad  schemes  are 
thicker  'n  prairie-chickens.  You've  got  grit,  Rob.  I 
don't  have  anything  but  crackers  and  sardines  over  to 
my  shanty,  and  here  you  are  making  soda-biscuit." 

133 


IJ4  Main -Travel  led  Roads 

"  I  have  t'  do  it.  Couldn't  break  if  I  didn't.  You 
editors  c'n  take  things  easy,  lay  around  on  the  prairie, 
and  watch  the  plovers  and  medderlarks  j  but  we  settlers 
have  got  to  work." 

Leaving  Rob  to  sputter  over  his  cooking,  Seagraves 
took  his  slow  way  off  down  toward  the  oxen  grazing  in 
a  little  hollow.  The  scene  was  characteristically,  won 
derfully  beautiful.  It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  a  day 
in  late  June,  and  the  level  plain  was  green  and  yellow, 
and  infinite  in  reach  as  a  sea;  the  lowering  sun  was 
casting  over  its  distant  swells  a  faint  impalpable  mist, 
through  which  the  breaking  teams  on  the  neighboring 
claims  ploughed  noiselessly,  as  figures  in  a  dream.  The 
whistle  of  gophers,  the  faint,  wailing,  fluttering  cry  of 
the  falling  plover,  the  whir  of  the  swift-winged  prairie- 
pigeon,  or  the  quack  of  a  lonely  duck,  came  through 
the  shimmering  air.  The  lark's  infrequent  whistle, 
piercingly  sweet,  broke  from  the  longer  grass  in  the 
swales  near  by.  No  other  climate,  sky,  plain,  could 
produce  the  same  unnamable  weird  charm.  No  tree 
to  wave,  no  grass  to  rustle,  scarcely  a  sound  of  domestic 
life ;  only  the  faint  melancholy  soughing  of  the  wind 
in  the  short  grass,  and  the  voices  of  the  wild  things  of 
che  prairie. 

Seagraves,  an  impressionable  young  man  (junior  editor 
of  the  Boomtown  Spike),  threw  himself  down  on  the  sod, 
pulled  his  hat-rim  down  over  his  eyes,  and  looked  away 
over  the  plain.  It  was  the  second  year  of  Boomtown's 
existence,  and  Seagraves  had  not  yet  grown  restless 
under  its  monotony.  Around  him  the  gophers  played 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  135 

saucily.  Teams  were  moving  here  and  there  across  the 
sod,  with  a  peculiar  noiseless,  effortless  motion,  that 
made  them  seem  as  calm,  lazy,  and  insubstantial  as  the 
mist  through  which  they  made  their  way ;  even  the 
sound  of  passing  wagons  seemed  a  sort  of  low,  well-fed, 
self-satisfied  chuckle. 

Seagraves,  "  holding  down  a  claim "  near  Rob,  had 
come  to  see  his  neighboring  "bach"  because  feeling  the 
need  of  company ;  but  now  that  he  was  near  enough  to 
hear  him  prancing  about  getting  supper,  he  was  content 
to  lie  alone  on  a  slope  of  the  green  sod. 

The  silence  of  the  prairie  at  night  was  well-nigh 
terrible.  Many  a  night,  as  Seagraves  lay  in  his  bunk 
against  the  side  of  his  cabin,  he  would  strain  his  ear  to 
hear  the  slightest  sound,  and  be  listening  thus  sometimes 
for  minutes  before  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  or  the  step 
of  a  passing  fox  came  as  a  relief  to  the  aching  sense. 
In  the  daytime,  however,  and  especially  on  a  morning, 
the  prairie  was  another  thing.  The  pigeons,  the  larks, 
the  cranes,  the  multitudinous  voices  of  the  ground-birds 
and  snipes  and  insects,  made  the  air  pulsate  with  sound 
—  a  chorus  that  died  away  into  an  infinite  murmur  of 
music. 

"  Hello,  Seagraves  !  "  yelled  Rob  from  the  door. 
"  The  biscuit  are  'most  done." 

Seagraves  did  not  speak,  only  nodded  his  head,  and 
slowly  rose.  The  faint  clouds  in  the  west  were  getting 
a  superb  flame-color  above  and  a  misty  purple  below, 
and  the  sun  had  pierced  them  with  lances  of  yellow 
light.  As  the  air  grew  denser  with  moisture,  the  sounds 


ij  6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

• 

of  neighboring  life  began  to  reach  the  ear.  Children 
screamed  and  laughed,  and  afar  off  a  woman  was  singing 
a  lullaby.  The  rattle  of  wagons  and  the  voices  of  men 
speaking  to  their  teams  multiplied.  Ducks  in  a  neigh 
boring  lowland  were  quacking  sociably.  The  whole 
scene  took  hold  upon  Seagraves  with  irresistible  power. 

"  It  is  American,"  he  exclaimed.  "  No  other  land 
or  time  can  match  this  mellow  air,  this  wealth  of  color, 
much  less  the  strange  social  conditions  of  life  on  this 
sunlit  Dakota  prairie." 

Rob,  though  visibly  affected  by  the  scene  also, 
couldn't  let  his  biscuit  spoil  or  go  without  proper 
attention. 

"  Say,  ain't  y'  comin'  t'  grub  ?  "  he  asked  impatiently. 

"  In  a  minute,"  replied  his  friend,  taking  a  last  wistful 
look  at  the  scene.  "  I  want  one  more  look  at  the  land 
scape." 

"  Landscape  be  blessed  !  If  you'd  been  breakin'  all 
day —  Come,  take  that  stool  an'  draw  up." 

"  No  ;  I'll  take  the  candle-box." 

"  Not  much.  I  know  what  manners  are,  if  I  am  a 
bull-driver." 

Seagraves  took  the  three-legged  and  rather  precarious- 
looking  stool  and  drew  up  to  the  table,  which  was  a  flat 
broad  box  nailed  up  against  the  side  of  the  wall,  with 
two  strips  of  board  spiked  at  the  outer  corners  for  legs. 

"  How's  that  Pr  a  lay-out  ?  "  Rob  inquired  proudly. 

"  Well,  you  have  spread  yourself !  Biscuit  and 
cannedv  peaches  and  sardines  and  cheese.  Why,  this  is 
*—  is  —  prodigal." 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  137 

"  It  ain't  nothin'  else." 

Rob  was  from  one  of  the  finest  counties  of  Wiscon 
sin,  over  toward  Milwaukee.  He  was  of  German  par 
entage,  a  middle-sized,  cheery,  wide-awake,  good-looking 
young  fellow  —  a  typical  claim-holder.  He  was  always 
confident,  jovial,  and  full  of  plans  for  the  future.  He 
had  dug  his  own  well,  built  his  own  shanty,  washed  and 
mended  his  own  clothing.  He  could  do  anything,  and 
do  it  well.  He  had  a  fine  field  of  wheat,  and  was  finish 
ing  the  ploughing  of  his  entire  quarter-section. 

"  This  is  what  I  call  settin'  under  a  feller's  own  vine 
an'  fig  tree  "  —  after  Seagraves'  compliments  —  "  an'  I 
like  it.  I'm  my  own  boss.  No  man  can  say  '  come 
here '  'r  '  go  there '  to  me.  I  get  up  when  I'm  a  min' 
to,  an'  go  t'  bed  when  I'm  a  min'  to." 

u  Some  drawbacks,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Mice,  Pr  instance,  give  me  a  devilish  lot  o' 
trouble.  They  get  into  my  flour-barrel,  eat  up  my 
cheese,  an'  fall  into  my  well.  But  it  ain't  no  use  t' 
swear." 

Seagraves  quoted  an  old  rhyme : 

"  *  The  rats  and  the  mice  they  made  such  a  strife 
He  had  to  go  to  London  to  buy  him  a  wife.'  " 

"  Don't  blush.      I've  probed  your  secret  thought." 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  honest  truth,"  said  Rob,  a  little 
sheepishly,  leaning  across  the  table,  u  I  ain't  satisfied 
with  my  style  o'  cookin'.  It's  good,  but  a  little  too  plain, 
y'  know.  I'd  like  a  change.  It  ain't  much  fun  to  break 
all  day,  and  then  go  to  work  an'  cook  y'r  own  supper." 


Ij8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  No,  I  should  say  not." 

"  This  fall  I'm  going  back  to  Wisconsin.  Girls  are 
thick  as  huckleberries  back  there,  and  I'm  goin'  t'  bring 
one  back,  now  you  hear  me." 

"  Good  !  That's  the  plan,"  laughed  Seagraves, 
amused  at  a  certain  timid  and  apprehensive  look  in  his 
companion's  eye.  "Just  think  what  a  woman  would 
do  to  put  this  shanty  in  shape ;  and  think  how  nice  it 
would  be  to  take  her  arm  and  saunter  out  after  supper, 
and  look  at  the  farm,  and  plan,  and  lay  out  gardens  and 
paths,  and  tend  the  chickens  !  " 

Rob's  manly  and  self-reliant  nature  had  the  settler's 
typical  buoyancy  and  hopefulness,  as  well  as  a  certain 
power  of  analysis,  which  enabled  him  now  to  say  :  "  The 
fact  is,  we  fellers  holdin'  down  claims  out  here  ain't  fools 
clear  to  the  rine.  We  know  a  couple  o'  things.  Now  I 
didn't  leave  Waupac  County  Pr  fun.  Did  y'  ever  see 
Waupac  ?  Well,  it's  one  o'  the  handsomest  counties 
the  sun  ever  shone  on,  full  o'  lakes  and  rivers  and  groves 
of  timber.  I  miss  'em  all  out  here,  and  I  miss  the  boys 
an'  girls ;  but  they  wa'n't  no  chance  there  f  r  a  feller. 
Land  that  was  good  was  so  blamed  high  you  couldn't 
touch  it  with  a  ten-foot  pole  from  a  balloon.  Rent  was 
high,  if  you  wanted  t'  rent,  an'  so  a  feller  like  me 
had  t'  get  out,  an'  now  I'm  out  here,  I'm  goin'  t'  make 
the  most  of  it.  Another  thing,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause  — "  we  fellers  workin'  out  back  there  got  more 
'n'  more  like  hands^  an'  less  like  human  'beings.  Y' 
know,  Waupac  is  a  kind  of  a  summer  resort,  and  the 
people  that  use'  t'  come  in  summers  looked  down  on  us 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  139 

cusses  in  the  fields  an*  shops.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  By 
God  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  rage  quite 
unusual,  "  I'd  rather  live  on  an  iceberg  and  claw  crabs 
f  r  a  livin'  than  have  some  feller  passin'  me  on  the  road 
an'  callin'  me  <  fellah  ! '  " 

Seagraves  knew  what  he  meant,  but  listened  in  aston 
ishment  at  his  outburst. 

"  I  consider  myself  a  sight  better  'n  any  man  who 
lives  on  somebody  else's  hard  work.  I've  never  had  a 
cent  I  didn't  earn  with  them  hands."  He  held  them 
up  and  broke  into  a  grin.  "  Beauties,  ain't  they  ?  But 
they  never  wore  gloves  that  some  other  poor  cuss 
earned." 

Seagraves  thought  them  grand  hands,  worthy  to  grasp 
the  hand  of  any  man  or  woman  living. 

"  Well,  so  I  come  West,  just  like  a  thousand  other 
fellers,  to  get  a  start  where  the  cussed  European  aris 
tocracy  hadn't  got  a  holt  on  the  people.  I  like  it  here 
—  course  I'd  like  the  lakes  an'  meadows  of  Waupac 
better  —  but  I'm  my  own  boss,  as  I  say,  and  I'm  goin' 
to  stay  my  own  boss  if  I  have  to  live  on  crackers  an' 
wheat  coffee  to  do  it ;  that's  the  kind  of  a  hair-pin 
I  am." 

In  the  pause  which  followed,  Seagraves,  plunged  deep 
into  thought  by  Rob's  words,  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand.  This  working  farmer  had  voiced  the  modern 
idea.  It  was  an  absolute  overturn  of  all  the  ideas  of 
nobility  and  special  privilege  born  of  the  feudal  past. 

"  I'd  like  to  use  your  idea  for  an  editorial,  Rob,"  he 
said. 


140  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  My  ideas  !  "  exclaimed  the  astounded  host,  pausing 
in  the  act  of  filling  his  pipe.  "  My  ideas  !  Why,  I 
didn't  know  I  had  any." 

"  Well,  you've  given  me  some,  anyhow." 

Seagraves  felt  that  it  was  a  wild,  grand  upstirring  of 
the  modern  democrat  against  the  aristocrat,  against  the 
idea  of  caste  and  the  privilege  of  living  on  the  labor  of 
others.  This  atom  of  humanity  (how  infinitesimal  this 
drop  in  the  ocean  of  humanity  !)  was  feeling  the  name 
less  longing  of  expanding  personality.  He  had  declared 
rebellion  against  laws  that  were  survivals  of  hate  and 
prejudice.  He  haJ  exposed  also  the  native  spring  of 
the  emigrant  by  uttering  the  feeling  that  it  is  better  to  be 
an  equal  among  peasants  than  a  servant  before  nobles. 

"  So  I  have  good  reasons  f  r  liking  the  country,"  Rob 
resumed,  in  a  quiet  way.  "The  soil  is  rich,  the  climate 
good  so  far,  an'  if  I  have  a  couple  o'  decent  crops  you'll 
see  a  neat  upright  goin'  up  here,  with  a  porch  and  a  bay- 
winder." 

"  And  you'll  still  be  living  here  alone,  frying  leathery 
slapjacks  an'  chopping  'taters  and  bacon." 

u  I  think  I  see  myself,"  drawled  Rob,  "  goin'  around 
all  summer  wearin'.the  same  shirt  without  washin',  an' 
wipin'  on  the  same  towel  four  straight  weeks,  an' 
wearin'  holes  in  my  socks,  an'  eatin'  musty  ginger- 
snaps,  mouldy  bacon,  an'  canned  Boston  beans  f'r  the 
rest  o'  my  endurin'  days  !  Oh,  yes  ;  I  guess  not !  "  He 
rose.  "Well,  see  y'  later.  Must  go  water  my  bulls." 

As  he  went  off  down  the  slope,  Seagraves  smiled  to 
hear  him  sing : 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  141 

fc  I  wish  that  some  kind-hearted  girl 
Would  pity  on  me  take, 
And  extricate  me  from  the  mess  I'm  in. 
The  angel  —  how  I'd  bless  her, 
If  this  her  home  she'd  make, 
In  my  little  old  sod  shanty  on  the  plain." 

The  boys  nearly  fell  off  their  chairs  in  the  Western 
House  dining  room,  a  few  days  later,  when  Rob  came 
in  to  supper  with  a  collar  and  necktie  as  the  finishing 
touch  of  a  remarkable  outfit. 

"  Hit  him,  somebody  !  " 

"  It's  a  clean  collar  !  " 

«  He's  started  f  r  Congress  !  " 

u  He's  going  to  get  married,"  put  in  Seagraves,  in  a 
tone  that  brought  conviction. 

"What  !  "  screamed  Jack  Adams,  O'Neill,  and  Wil< 
son,  in  one  breath.  "  That  man  ?  " 

u  That  man,"  replied  Seagraves,  amazed  at  Rob,  who 
coolly  took  his  seat,  squared  his  elbows,  pressed  his 
collar  down  at  the  back,  and  called  for  the  bacon  and 
eggs. 

The  crowd  stared  at  him  in  a  dead  silence. 

"  Where's  he  going  to  do  it  ? "  asked  Jack  Adams. 
"  Where's  he  going  to  find  a  girl  ? " 

u  Ask  him,"  said  Seagraves. 

"  I  ain't  tellin',"  put  in  Rob,  with  his  mouth  full  of 
potato. 

"  You're  afraid  of  our  competition." 

u  That's  right ;  our  competition,  Jack  ;  not  your  com 
petition.  Come,  now,  Rob,  tell  us  where  you  found  her." 


142  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  I  ain't  found  her." 

"  What !    And  yet  you're  goin'  away  t'  get  married  ! " 

"  I'm  goin'  t'  bring  a  wife  back  with  me  ten  days 
fr'm  date." 

"  I  see  his  scheme,"  put  in  Jim  Rivers.  "  He's 
goin'  back  East  somewhere,  an'  he's  goin'  to  propose  to 
every  girl  he  meets." 

"  Hold  on  !  "  interrupted  Rob,  holding  up  his  fork. 
"Ain't  quite  right.  Every  good  lookirf  girl  I  meet." 

«  Well,  I'll  be  blanked  !  "  exclaimed  Jack,  impres 
sively  j  "  that  simply  lets  me  out.  Any  man  with  such 
a  cheek  ought  to  —  " 

"  Succeed,"  interrupted  Seagraves. 

"  That's  what  I  say,"  bawled  Hank  Whiting,  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  house.  "  You  fellers  ain't  got  any  enter 
prise  to  yeh.  Why  don't  you  go  to  work  an'  help  settle 
the  country  like  men  ?  'Cause  y'  ain't  got  no  sand. 
Girls  are  thicker  'n  huckleberries  back  East.  I  say  it's 
a  dum  shame  !  " 

"  Easy,  Henry,"  said  the  elegant  bank-clerk,  Wilson, 
looking  gravely  about  through  his  spectacles.  "  I  com 
mend  the  courage  and  the  resolution  of  Mr.  Rodemaker. 
I  pray  the  lady  may  not 

e  Mislike  him  for  his  complexion, 
The  shadowed  livery  of  the  burning  sun."' 

"  Shakespeare,"  said  Adams,  at  a  venture. 

Wilson  turned  to  Rob.  "  Brother  in  adversity, 
when  do  you  embark  another  Jason  on  an  untried 
sea  ?  " 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  143 

"  Hay  !  "  said  Rob,  winking  at  Seagraves.  "  Oh,  I 
go  to-night  —  night  train." 

"And  return?  " 

"  Ten  days  from  date." 

"  I'll  wager  a  wedding  supper  he  brings  a  blonde," 
said  Wilson,  his  clean-cut,  languid  speech  compelling 
attention. 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  Wilson  ;  that's  too  thin  !  We  all 
know  that  rule  about  dark  marryin'  light." 

"I'll  wager  she'll  be  tall,"  continued  Wilson.  "I'll 
wager  you^  friend  Rodemaker,  she'll  be  blonde  and 
tall." 

The  rest  roared  at  Rob's  astonishment  and  confusion. 

The  absurdity  of  it  grew,  and  they  went  into  spasms 
of  laughter.  But  Wilson  remained  impassive,  not  the 
twitching  of  a  muscle  betraying  that  he  saw  anything  to 
laugh  at  in  the  proposition. 

Mrs.  Whiting  and  the  kitchen-girls  came  in,  wonder 
ing  at  the  merriment.  Rob  began  to  get  uneasy. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Whiting,  a 
jolly  little  matron. 

Rivers  put  the  case.  "  Rob's  on  his  way  back  to 
Wisconsin  t'  get  married,  and  Wilson  has  offered  to 
bet  htm  that  his  wife  will  be  a  blonde  and  tall,  and  Rob 
dassent  bet !  "  And  they  roared  again. 

u  Why,  the  idea  !  the  man's  crazy ! "  said  Mrs. 
Whiting. 

The  crowd  looked  at  each  other.  This  was  hint 
enough ;  they  sobered,  nodding  at  each  other  com- 
miseratingly. 


144  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Aha  !  I  see  ;  I  understand." 

"  It's  the  heat." 

"  And  the  Boston  beans." 

"  Let  up  on  him,  Wilson.  Don't  badger  a  poor  irre 
sponsible  fellow.  I  thought  something  was  wrong  when 
I  saw  the  collar." 

"  Oh,  keep  it  up !  "  said  Rob,  a  little  nettled  by  their 
evident  intention  to  have  fun  with  him. 

"  Soothe  him  —  soo-o-o-o-the  him  !  "  said  Wilson. 
"Don't  be  harsh." 

Rob  rose  from  the  table.  "  Go  to  thunder !  You 
fellows  make  me  tired." 

"  The  fit  is  on  him  again  ! " 

He  rose  disgustedly  and  went  out.  They  followed 
him  in  single  file.  The  rest  of  the  town  "  caught  on." 
Frank  Graham  heaved  an  apple  at  him,  and  joined  the 
procession.  Rob  went  into  the  store  to  buy  some  to 
bacco.  They  all  followed,  and  perched  like  crows  on 
the  counters  till  he  went  out ;  then  they  followed  him, 
as  before.  They  watched  him  check  his  trunk ;  they 
witnessed  the  purchase  of  the  ticket.  The  town  had 
turned  out  by  this  time. 

"  Waupac  !  "  announced  the  one  nearest  the  victim. 

"  Waupac  !  "  said  the  next  man,  and  the  word  was 
passed  along  the  street  up  town. 

"Make  a  note  of  it,"  said  Wilson;  "Waupac  —  a 
county  where  a  man's  proposal  for  marriage  is  honored 
upon  presentation.  Sight  drafts." 

Rivers  struck  up  a  song,  while  Rob  stood  around, 
patiently  bearing  the  jokes  of  the  crowd : 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  145 

"We're  lookin'  rather  seedy  now, 
While  holdin'  down  our  claims, 
And  our  vittles  are  not  always  of  the  best, 
And  the  mice  play  slyly  round  us 
As  we  lay  down  to  sleep 
In  our  little  old  tarred  shanties  on  the  claim. 

"  Yet  we  rather  like  the  novelty 
Of  livin'  in  this  way, 

Though  the  bill  of  fare  is  often  rather  tame  ; 
And  we're  happy  as  a  clam 
On  the  land  of  Uncle  Sam 
In  our  little  old  tarred  shanty  on  the  claim." 

The  train  drew  up  at  length,  to  the  immense  relief 
of  Rob,  whose  stoical  resignation  was  beginning  to 
weaken. 

"Don't  y'  wish  y'  had  sand  ? "  he  yelled  to  the  crowd, 
as  he  plunged  into  the  car,  thinking  he  was  rid  of  them 
at  last. 

He  was  mistaken.  Their  last  stroke  was  to  follow 
him  into  the  car,  nodding,  pointing  to  their  heads,  and 
whispering,  managing  in  the  half-minute  the  train  stood 
at  the  platform  to  set  every  person  in  the  car  staring 
at  the  "  crazy  man."  Rob  groaned,  and  pulled  his  hat 
down  over  his  eyes  —  an  action  which  confirmed  his 
tormentors'  words  and  made  several  ladies  click  their 
tongues  in  sympathy  —  "  Tick  !  tick  !  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  All  abo-o-o-a-rd !  "  said  the  conductor,  grinning  his 
appreciation  at  the  crowd,  and  the  train  was  off. 

"  Oh.  won't  we  make  him  groan  when  he  gets  back ! " 
L 


146  Main -Travelled  Roads 

said  Barney,  the  young  lawyer,  who  sang  the  shouting 
tenor. 

"We'll  meet  him  with  the  timbrel  and  the  harp. 
Anybody  want  to  wager  ?  I've  got  two  to  one  on  a 
short  brunette,"  said  Wilson. 

II 

ff  Follow  it  far  enough  and  it  may  pass  the  bend  in  the  river  where  the 
ivater  laughs  eternally  over  its  shallows." 

A  corn-field  in  July  is  a  sultry  place.  The  soil  is 
hot  and  dry;  the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily  murmur 
ing  leaves  laden  with  a  warm,  sickening  smell  drawn 
from  the  rapidly  growing,  broad-flung  banners  of  the 
corn.  The  sun,  nearly  vertical,  drops  a  flood  of 
dazzling  light  upon  the  field  over  which  the  cool 
shadows  run,  only  to  make  the  heat  seem  the  more 
intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  hunger,  was  toiling  back  and 
forth  between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles  of  the 
double-shovel  corn-plough,  while  her  little  brother  Otto 
rode  the  steaming  horse.  Her  heart  was  full  of  bitter 
ness,  her  face  flushed  with  heat,  and  her  muscles  aching 
with  fatigue.  The  heat  grew  terrible.  The  corn  came 
to  her  shoulders,  and  not  a  breath  seemed  to  reach  her, 
while  the  sun,  nearing  the  noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon 
her  shoulders,  protected  only  by  a  calico  dress.  The 
dust  rose  under  her  feet,  and  as  she  was  wet  with  perspi 
ration  it  soiled  her  till  with  a  woman's  instinctive  clean 
liness,  she  shuddered.  Her  head  throbbed  dangerously. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  147 

What  matter  to  her  that  the  kingbird  pitched  jovially 
from  the  maples  to  catch  a  wandering  bluebottle  fly, 
that  the  robin  was  feeding  its  young,  that  the  bobolink 
was  singing  ?  All  these  things,  if  she  saw  them,  only 
threw  her  bondage  to  labor  into  greater  relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could 
see  her  father  —  a  big,  gruff-voiced,  wide-bearded  Nor 
wegian —  at  work  also  with  a  plough.  The  corn  must 
be  ploughed,  and  so  she  toiled  on,  the  tears  dropping 
from  the  shadow  of  the  ugly  sun-bonnet  she  wore.  Her 
shoes,  coarse  and  square-toed,  chafed  her  feet ;  her  hands, 
large  and  strong,  were  browned,  or,  more  properly,  burnt, 
on  the  backs  by  the  sun.  The  horse's  harness  "  creak- 
cracked "  as  he  swung  steadily  and  patiently  forward, 
the  moisture  pouring  from  his  sides,  his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  bordered  on  a  road,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road  ran  a  river  —  a  broad,  clear,  shallow  expanse  at 
that  point,  and  the  eyes  of  the  boy  gazed  longingly  at  the 
pond  and  the  cool  shadow  each  time  that  he  turned  at 
the  fence. 

"  Say,  Jule,  Fm  goin'  in  !  Come,  can't  I  ?  Come 
—  say  !  "  he  pleaded,  as  they  stopped  at  the  fence  to  let 
the  horse  breathe. 

"  I've  let  you  go  wade  twice." 

u  But  that  don't  do  any  good.  My  legs  is  all  smarty, 
'cause  oP  Jack  sweats  so."  The  boy  turned  around  on 
the  horse's  back  and  slid  back  to  his  rump.  "  I  can't 
stand  it !  "  he  burst  out,  sliding  off  and  darting  under  the 
fence.  u  Father  can't  see." 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  fence  and  watched  her 


148  Main -Travelled  Roads 

little  brother  as  he  sped  away  to  the  pool,  throwing  off 
his  clothes  as  he  ran,  whooping  with  uncontrollable  de 
light.  Soon  she  could  hear  him  splashing  about  in  the 
water  a  short  distance  up  the  stream,  and  caught  glimpses 
of  his  little  shiny  body  and  happy  face.  How  cool  that 
water  looked  !  And  the  shadows  there  by  the  big  bass- 
wood  !  How  that  water  would  cool  her  blistered  feet. 
An  impulse  seized  her,  and  she  squeezed  between  the 
rails  of  the  fence,  and  stood  in  the  road  looking  up  and 
down  to  see  that  the  way  was  clear.  It  was  not  a  main- 
travelled  road;  no  one  was  likely  to  come ;  why  not? 

She  hurriedly  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  —  how 
delicious  the  cool,  soft  velvet  of  the  grass  !  and  sitting 
down  on  the  bank  under  the  great  basswood,  whose  roots 
formed  an  abrupt  bank,  she  slid  her  poor  blistered,  chafed 
feet  into  the  water,  her  bare  head  leaned  against  the  huge 
tree-trunk. 

And  now,  as  she  rested,  the  beauty  of  the  scene  came 
to  her.  Over  her  the  wind  moved  the  leaves.  A  jay 
screamed  far  off,  as  if  answering  the  cries  of  the  boy. 
A  kingfisher  crossed  and  recrossed  the  stream  with  dip 
ping  sweep  of  his  wings.  The  river  sang  with  its  lips 
to  the  pebbles.  The  vast  clouds  went  by  majestically, 
far  above  the  tree-tops',  and  the  snap  and  buzzing  and 
ringing  whir  of  July  insects  made  a  ceaseless,  slumberous 
undertone  of  song  solvent  of  all  else.  The  tired  girl  for 
got  her  work.  She  began  to  dream.  This  would  not 
last  always.  Some  one  would  come  to  release  her  from 
such  drudgery.  This  was  her  constant,  tenderest,  and 
most  secret  dream.  He  would  be  a  Yankee,  not  a  Nor- 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  149 

ivegian.  The  Yankees  didn't  ask  their  wives  to  work  in 
the  field.  He  would  have  a  home.  Perhaps  he'd  live 
in  town  —  perhaps  a  merchant !  And  then  she  thought 
of  the  drug  clerk  in  Rock  River  who  had  looked  at 
her  —  A  voice  broke  in  on  her  dream,  a  fresh,  manly 
voice. 

u  Well,  by  jinks  !  if  it  ain't  Julia  !  Just  the  one  I 
wanted  to  see  !  " 

The  girl  turned,  saw  a  pleasant-faced  young  fellow  in 
a  derby  hat  and  a  cutaway  suit  of  diagonals. 

"  Bob  Rodemaker  !      How  come  —  " 

She  remembered  her  situation  and  flushed,  looked 
down  at  the  water,  and  remained  perfectly  still. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  to  shake  hands  ?  Y'  don't  seem 
very  glad  t'  see  me." 

She  began  to  grow  angry.  "  If  you  had  any  eyes, 
you'd  see." 

Rob  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  whistled,  turned 
away.  "  Oh,  I  see  !  Excuse  me  !  Don't  blame  yeh  a 
bit,  though.  Good  weather  f 'r  corn,"  he  went  on,  look 
ing  up  at  the  trees.  "  Corn  seems  to  be  pretty  well  for 
ward,"  he  continued,  in  a  louder  voice,  as  he  walked 
away,  still  gazing  into  the  air.  "  Crops  is  looking  first- 
class  in  Boomtown.  Hello  !  This  Otto  ?  H'yare,  y' 
little  scamp  !  Get  on  to  that  horse  agin.  Quick,  'r  I'll 
take  y'r  skin  ofF  an'  hang  it  on  the  fence.  What  y'  been 
doin'  ? " 

"  Ben  in  swimmin'.  Jimminy,  ain't  it  fun  !  When 
'd  y'  get  back  ? "  said  the  boy,  grinning. 

"  Never  you  mind  !  "  replied  Rob,  leaping  the  fence 


150  Main -Travelled  Roads 

by  laying  his  left  hand  on  the  top  rail.  "  Get  on  to 
that  horse."  He  tossed  the  boy  up  on  the  horse,  and 
hung  his  coat  on  the  fence.  u  I  s'pose  the  ol'  man 
makes  her  plough,  same  as  usual  ?  " 

"  Yup,"  said  Otto. 

"  Dod  ding  a  man  that'll  do  that !  I  don't  mind  if 
it's  necessary,  but  it  ain't  necessary  in  his  case."  He 
continued  to  mutter  in  this  way  as  he  went  across  to 
the  other  side  of  the  field.  As  they  turned  to  come 
back,  Rob  went  up  and  looked  at  the  horse's  mouth. 
"  Gettin'  purty  near  of  age.  Say,  who's  sparkin'  Julia 
now  —  anybody  ?  " 

"  Nobody  'cept  some  ol'  Norwegians.  She  won't  have 
them.  For  wants  her  to,  but  she  won't." 

"  Good  Pr  her.  Nobody  comes  t'  see  her  Sunday 
nights,  eh  ? " 

"Nope;  only  'Tias  Anderson  an'  Ole  Hoover;  but 
she  goes  off  an'  leaves  'em." 

"  Chk  !  "  said  Rob,  starting  old  Jack  across  the  field. 

It  was  almost  noon,  and  Jack  moved  reluctantly.  He 
knew  the  time  of  day  as  well  as  the  boy.  He  made  this 
round  after  distinct  protest. 

In  the  meantime  Julia,  putting  on  her  shoes  and  stock 
ings,  went  to  the  fence  and  watched  the  man's  shining 
white  shirt  as  he  moved  across  the  corn-field.  There 
had  never  been  any  special  tenderness  between  them, 
but  she  had  always  liked  him.  They  had  been  at  school 
together.  She  wondered  why  he  had  come  back  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  and  wondered  how  long  he  would  stay. 
How  long  had  he  stood  looking  at  her  ?  She  flushed 


Among  the  Corn- Rows  151 

again  at  the  thought  of  it.  But  he  wasn't  to  blame ;  it 
was  a_public  road.  She  might  have  known  better. 

She  stood  under  a  little  popple  tree,  whose  leaves 
shook  musically  at  every  zephyr,  and  her  eyes,  through 
half-shut  lids,  roved  over  the  sea  of  deep-green,  glossy 
leaves,  dappled  here  and  there  by  cloud  shadows,  stirred 
here  and  there  like  water  by  the  wind ;  and  out  of  it  all 
a  longing  to  be  free  from  such  toil  rose  like  a  breath, 
filling  her  throat  and  quickening  the  motion  of  her  heart. 
Must  this  go  on  forever,  this  life  of  heat  and  dust  and 
labor  ?  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

The  girl  laid  her  chin  on  her  strong  red  wrists,  and 
looked  up  into  the  blue  spaces  between  the  vast  clouds 
—  aerial  mountains  dissolving  in  a  shoreless  azure  sea. 
How  cool  and  sweet  and  restful  they  looked  !  If  she 
might  only  lie  out  on  the  billowy,  snow-white,  sunlit 
edge  !  The  voices  of  the  driver  and  the  ploughman 
recalled  her,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  again  upon  the 
slowly  nodding  head  of  the  patient  horse,  on  the  boy 
turned  half  about  on  his  saddle,  talking  to  the  white- 
sleeved  man,  whose  derby  hat  bobbed  up  and  down  quite 
curiously,  like  the  horse's  head.  Would  she  ask  him  to 
dinner  ?  What  would  her  people  say  ? 

"  Phew  !  it's  hot !  "  was  the  greeting  the  young  fellow 
gave  as  he  came  up.  He  smiled  in  a  frank,  boyish  way, 
as  he  hung  his  hat  on  the  top  of  a  stake  and  looked  up 
at  her.  UD'  y'  know,  I  kind  o'  enjoy  gettin'  at  it 
again  ?  Fact.  It  ain't  no  work  for  a  girl,  though,"  he 
added. 

"  When  'd  you  get  back  ?  "  she  asked,  the  flush  not 


152  Main -Travelled  Roads 

yet  out  of  her  face.  Rob  was  looking  at  her  thick,  fine 
hair  and  full  Scandinavian  face,  rich  as  a  rose  in  color, 
and  did  not  reply  for  a  few  seconds.  She  stood  with 
her  hideous  sun-bonnet  pushed  back  on  her  shoulders. 
A  kingbird  was  chattering  overhead. 

u  Oh,  a  few  days  ago." 

"  How  long  y'  goin'  t*  stay  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  d'  know.     A  week,  mebbe." 

A  far-off  halloo  came  pulsing  across  the  shimmering 
air.  The  boy  screamed  "  Dinner  !  "  and  waved  his  hat 
with  an  answering  whoop,  then  flopped  off  the  horse 
like  a  turtle  off  a  stone  into  water.  He  had  the  horse 
unhooked  in  an  instant,  and  had  flung  his  toes  up  over 
the  horse's  back,  in  act  to  climb  on,  when  Rob 
said  : 

"  H'yare,  young  feller !  wait  a  minute.  Tired  ?  "  he 
asked  the  girl,  with  a  tone  that  was  more  than  kindly. 
It  was  almost  tender. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  low  voice.  "  My  shoes  hurt 
me." 

"  Well,  here  y'  go,"  he  replied,  taking  his  stand  by 
the  horse,  and  holding  out  his  hand  like  a  step.  She 
colored  and  smiled  a  little  as  she  lifted  her  foot  into  his 
huge,  hard,  sunburned  hand. 

"  Oop-a-daisy  !  "  he  called.  She  gave  a  spring,  and 
sat  on  the  horse  like  one  at  home  there. 

Rob  had  a  deliciously  unconscious,  abstracted,  busi 
ness-like  air.  He  really  left  her  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy 
his  company,  while  he  went  ahead  and  did  precisely  as 
he  pleased. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  153 

"  We  don't  raise  much  corn  out  there,  an*  so  I  kind 
o'  like  to  see  it  once  more." 

"  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  see  another  hill  of  corn  as 
»ong  as  I  live  !  "  replied  the  girl,  bitterly. 

"  Don't  know  as  I  blame  yeh  a  bit.  But,  all  the 
same,  I'm  glad  you  was  working  in  it  to-day,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  walked  beside  her  horse  toward 
the  house. 

"  Will  you  stop  to  dinner  ?  "  she  inquired  bluntly, 
almost  surlily.  It  was  evident  there  were  reasons  why 
she  didn't  mean  to  press  him  to  do  so. 

"  You  bet  I  will,"  he  replied ;  "  that  is,  if  you  want  1 
should." 

"You  know  how  we  live,"  she  replied  evasively. 
"  If  you  can  stand  it,  why  —  "  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

Yes,  he  remembered  how  they  lived  in  that  big, 
square,  dirty,  white  frame  house.  It  had  been  three  or 
four  years  since  he  had  been  in  it,  but  the  smell  of  the 
cabbage  and  onions,  the  penetrating,  peculiar  mixture  of 
odors,  assailed  his  memory  as  something  unforgettable. 

"  I  guess  I'll  stop,"  he  said,  as  she  hesitated.  She 
said  no  more,  but  tried  to  act  as  if  she  were  not  in  any 
way  responsible  for  what  came  afterward. 

"  I  guess  I  c'n  stand  Pr  one  meal  what  you  stand  all 
the  while,"  he  added. 

As  she  left  them  at  the  well  and  went  to  the  house 
he  saw  her  limp  painfully,  and  the  memory  of  her  face 
so  close  to  his  lips  as  he  helped  her  down  from  the  horse 
gave  him  pleasure  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  touched 
by  its  tired  and  gloomy  look.  Mrs.  Peterson  came  to 


154  Main -Travelled  Roads 

the  door  of  the  kitchen,  looking  just  the  same  as  ever. 
Broad-faced,  unwieldy,  flabby,  apparently  wearing  the 
same  dress  he  remembered  to  have  seen  her  in  years 
before,  —  a  dirty  drab-colored  thing,  —  she  looked  as 
shapeless  as  a  sack  of  wool.  Her  English  was  limited 
to,  "  How  de  do,  Rob  ? " 

He  washed  at  the  pump,  while  the  girl,  in  the  attempt 
to  be  hospitable,  held  the  clean  towel  for  him. 

"  You're  purty  well  used  up,  eh  ? "  he  said  to  her. 

"  Yes  ;  it's  awful  hot  out  there." 

"  Can't  you  lay  off  this  afternoon  ?     It  ain't  right." 

"  No.     He  won't  listen  to  that." 

"  Well,  let  me  take  your  place." 

"  No ;  there  ain't  any  use  o'  that." 

Peterson,  a  brawny,  wide-bearded  Norwegian,  came  up 
at  this  moment,  and  spoke  to  Rob  in  a  sullen,  gruff  way. 

"  Hallo,  whan  yo'  gaet  back  ?  " 

"To-day.  He  ain't  very  glad  to  see  me,"  said  Rob, 
winking  at  Julia.  "  He  ain't  b'ilin'  over  with  enthusi 
asm  ;  but  I  c'n  stand  it,  for  your  sake,"  he  added,  with 
amazing  assurance ;  but  the  girl  had  turned  away,  and 
it  was  wasted. 

At  the  table  he  ate  heartily  of  the  "  bean  swaagen," 
which  rilled  a  large  wooden  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the 
table,  and  which  was  ladled  into  smaller  wooden  bowls 
at  each  plate.  Julia  had  tried  hard  to  convert  her 
mother  to  Yankee  ways,  and  had  at  last  given  it  up 
in  despair.  Rob  kept  on  safe  subjects,  mainly  asking 
questions  about  the  crops  of  Peterson,  and  when  address 
ing  the  girl,  inquired  of  the  schoolmates.  By  skilful 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  155 

questioning,  he  kept  the  subject  of  marriage  uppermost, 
and  seemingly  was  getting  an  inventory  of  the  girls  not 
vet  married  or  engaged. 

It  was  embarrassing  for  the  girl.  She  was  all  too  well 
aware  of  the  difference  between  her  home  and  the  home 
of  her  schoolmates  and  friends.  She  knew  that  it  was 
not  pleasant  for  her  "  Yankee  "  friends  to  come  to  visit 
her  when  they  could  not  feel  sure  of  a  welcome  from 
the  tireless,  silent,  and  grim-visaged  old  Norse,  if,  in 
deed,  they  could  escape  insult.  Julia  ate  her  food 
mechanically,  and  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  she  en 
joyed  the  brisk  talk  of  the  young  man,  his  eyes  were 
upon  her  so  constantly  and  his  smile  so  obviously  ad 
dressed  to  her.  She  rose  as  soon  as  possible  and,  going 
outside,  took  a  seat  on  a  chair  under  the  trees  in  the 
yard.  She  was  not  a  coarse  or  dull  girl.  In  fact,  she 
had  developed  so  rapidly  by  contact  with  the  young 
people  of  the  neighborhood  that  she  no  longer  found 
pleasure  in  her  own  home.  She  didn't  believe  in  keep 
ing  up  the  old-fashioned  Norwegian  customs,  and  her 
life  with  her  mother  was  not  one  to  breed  love  or  con 
fidence.  She  was  more  like  a  hired  hand.  The  love 
of  the  mother  for  her  "  Yulyie "  was  sincere  though 
rough  and  inarticulate,  and  it  was  her  jealousy  of  the 
young  "  Yankees  "  that  widened  the  chasm  between  the 
girl  and  herself — an  inevitable  result. 

Rob  followed  the  girl  out  into  the  yard,  and  threw 
himself  on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  perfectly  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  this  attitude  was  exceedingly  graceful 
and  becoming  to  them  both.  He  did  it  because  he 


156  Main -Travelled  Roads 

wanted  to  talk  to  her,  and  the  grass  was  cool  and  easy  j 
there  wasn't  any  other  chair,  anyway. 

"  Do  they  keep  up  the  ly-ceum  and  the  sociables 
same  as  ever  ?  " 

"  Yes.  The  others  go  a  good  'eal,  but  I  don't. 
We're  gettin'  such  a  stock  round  us,  and  father  thinks 
he  needs  me  s'  much,  I  don't  get  out  often.  I'm  gettin' 
sick  of  it." 

"  I  sh'd  think  y'  would,"  he  replied,  his  eyes  on  her 
face. 

"  I  c'd  stand  the  churnin'  and  housework,  but  when 
it  comes  t'  workin'  outdoors  in  the  dirt  an'  hot  sunr 
gettin'  all  sunburned  and  chapped  up,  it's  anothei 
thing.  An'  then  it  seems  as  if  he  gets  stingier  'n' 
stingier  every  year.  I  ain't  had  a  new  dress  in  —  1 
d'— know-how-long.  He  says  it's  all  nonsense,  an' 
mother's  just  about  as  bad.  She  don't  want  a  new  dress, 
an'  so  she  thinks  I  don't."  The  girl  was  feeling  the 
influence  of  a  sympathetic  listener  and  was  making  up 
for  the  long  silence.  "  I've  tried  t'  go  out  t'  work,  but 
they  won't  let  me.  They'd  have  t'  pay  a  hand  twenty 
dollars  a  month  f  r  the  work  I  do,  an'  they  like  cheap 
help ;  but  I'm  not  goin'  t'  stand  it  much  longer,  I  can 
tell  you  that." 

Rob  thought  she  was  very  handsome  as  she  sat  there 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  while  these  rebellious 
thoughts  found  utterance  in  her  quivering,  passionate 
voice. 

"  Yulie  !  Kom  haar  !  "  roared  the  old  man  from  the 
well. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  157 

A  frown  of  anger  and  pain  came  into  her  face.  She 
looked  at  Rob.  "  That  means  more  work." 

"  Say !  let  me  go  out  in  your  place0  Come,  now  ; 
what's  the  use  —  " 

"  No ;  it  wouldn't  do  no  good.  It  ain't  t'-day  s' 
much;  it's  every  day,  and — " 

"  Yu//<?  / "  called  Peterson  again,  with  a  string  of 
impatient  Norwegian.  "  Batter  yo'  kom  pooty  hal 
quick." 

"Well,  all  right,  only  I'd  like  to  —  "  Rob  submitted. 

"Well,  good-by,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of 
feeling.  "  When  d'  ye  go  back  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'll  see  y'  again  before  I  go.  Good- 
by." 

He  stood  watching  her  slow,  painful  pace  till  she 
reached  the  well,  where  Otto  was  standing  with  the 
horse.  He  stood  watching  them  as  they  moved  out 
into  the  road  and  turned  down  toward  the  field.  He 
felt  that  she  had  sent  him  away ;  but  still  there  was  a 
look  in  her  eyes  which  was  not  altogether  — 

He  gave  it  up  in  despair  at  last.  He  was  not  good 
at  analyses  of  this  nature ;  he  was  used  to  plain,  blunt 
expressions.  There  was  a  woman's  subtlety  here  quite 
beyond  his  reach. 

He  sauntered  slowly  off  up  the  road  after  his  talk 
with  Julia.  His  head  was  low  on  his  breast ;  he  was 
thinking  as  one  who  is  about  to  take  a  decided  and  im 
portant  step. 

He  stopped  at  length,  and,  turning,  watched  the  giri 
moving  along  in  the  deeps  of  the  corn.  Hardly  a  leaf 


158  Main -Travelled  Roads 

was  stirring ;  the  untempered  sunlight  fell  in  a  burning 
flood  upon  the  field  ;  the  grasshoppers  rose,  snapped, 
buzzed,  and  fell ;  the  locust  uttered  its  dry,  heat-intensi 
fying  cry.  The  man  lifted  his  head. 

"  It's  a  d — n  shame  !  "  he  said,  beginning  rapidly  to 
retrace  his  steps.  He  stood  leaning  on  the  fence,  await 
ing  the  girl's  coming  very  much  as  she  had  waited  his 
on  the  round  he  had  made  before  dinner.  He  grew  im 
patient  at  the  slow  gait  of  the  horse,  and  drummed  on 
the  rail  while  he  whistled.  Then  he  took  oft*  his  hat 
and  dusted  it  nervously.  As  the  horse  got  a  little  nearer 
he  wiped  his  face  carefully,  pushed  his  hat  back  on  his 
head,  and  climbed  over  the  fence,  where  he  stood  with 
elbows  on  the  middle  rail  as  the  girl  and  boy  and  horse 
came  to  the  end  of  the  furrow. 

"  Hot,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  said,  as  she  looked  up. 

"  Jimminy  Peters,  it's  awful !  "  puffed  the  boy.  The 
girl  did  not  reply  till  she  swung  the  plough  about  after 
the  horse,  and  set  it  upright  into  the  next  row.  Her 
powerful  body  had  a  superb  swaying  motion  at  the  waist 
as  she  did  this  —  a  motion  which  affected  Rob  vaguely 
but  massively. 

"  I  thought  you'd  gone,"  she  said  gravely,  pushing 
back  her  bonnet  till  he  could  see  her  face  dewed  with 
sweat,  and  pink  as  a  rose.  She  had  the  high  cheek-bones 
of  her  race,  but  she  had  also  their  exquisite  fairness  of 
color. 

"Say,  Otto,"  asked  Rob,  alluringly,  "wan'  to  go 
gwimmin'  ?  " 

"You  bet,"  replied  Otto. 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  159 

"Well,  Fllgo  around  if—" 

The  boy  dropped  off  the  horse,  not  waiting  to  hear 
any  more.  Rob  grinned,  but  the  girl  dropped  her  eyes, 
then  looked  away. 

"  Got  rid  o'  him  mighty  quick.  Say,  Julyie,  I  hate 
like  thunder  t'  see  you  out  here;  it  ain't  right.  I  wish 
you'd  —  I  wish  —  " 

She  could  not  look  at  him  now,  and  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  with  a  motion  that  was  not  due  to  fatigue.  Her 
moist  hair  matted  around  her  forehead  gave  her  a  boyish 
look. 

Rob  nervously  tried  again,  tearing  splinters  from  the 
fence.  "  Say,  now,  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I  came  back  here 
for  —  t'  git  married ;  and  if  you're  willin'  I'll  do  it  to 
night.  Come,  now,  whaddy  y'  say  ?  " 

"  What've  /  got  t'  do  'bout  it  ? "  she  finally  asked, 
the  color  flooding  her  face,  and  a  faint  smile  coming  to 
her  lips.  "Go  ahead.  I  ain't  got  anything  —  " 

Rob  put  a  splinter  in  his  mouth  and  faced  her.  "  Oh, 
looky  here,  now,  Julyie  !  you  know  what  I  mean.  I've 
got  a  good  claim  out  near  Boomtown  —  a  rattlirf  good 
claim;  a  shanty  on  it  fourteen  by  sixteen  —  no  tarred 
paper  about  it,  and  a  suller  to  keep  butter  in,  and  a 
hundred  acres  o'  wheat  just  about  ready  to  turn  now. 
I  need  a  wife." 

Here  he  straightened  up,  threw  away  the  splinter,  °/id 
took  off  his  hat.  He  was  a  very  pleasant  figure  as  the 
girl  stole  a  look  at  him.  His  black  laughing  eyes  were 
especially  earnest  just  now.  His  voice  had  a  touch  of 
pleading.  The  popple  tree  over  their  heads  murmured 


160  Main -Travelled  Roads 

applause  at  his  eloquence,  then  hushed  to  listen.  A  cloud 
dropped  a  silent  shadow  down  upon  them,  and  it  sent  a 
little  thrill  of  fear  through  Rob,  as  if  it  were  an  omen 
of  failure.  As  the  girl  remained  silent,  looking  away, 
he  began,  man-fashion,  to  desire  her  more  and  more,  as 
he  feared  to  lose  her.  He  put  his  hat  on  the  post  again 
and  took  out  his  jack-knife.  Her  calico  dress  draped 
her  supple  and  powerful  figure  simply  but  naturally. 
The  stoop  in  her  shoulders,  given  by  labor,  disappeared 
as  she  partly  leaned  upon  the  fence.  The  curves  of  her 
muscular  arms  showed  through  her  sleeve. 

"  It's  all-fired  lonesome  Pr  me  out  there  on  that 
claim,  and  it  ain't  no  picnic  Pr  you  here.  Now,  if  you'll 
come  out  there  with  me,  you  needn't  do  anything  but 
cook  Pr  me,  and  after  harvest  we  can  git  a  good  layout 
o'  furniture,  an'  I'll  lath  and  plaster  the  house  and  put 
a  little  hell  [ell]  in  the  rear."  He  smiled,  and  so  did 
she.  He  felt  encouraged  to  say  :  "  An'  there  we  be,  as 
snug  as  y'  please.  We're  close  t'  Boomtown,  an'  we 
can  go  down  there  to  church  sociables  an'  things,  and 
they're  a  jolly  lot  there." 

The  girl  was  still  silent,  but  the  man's  simple  en 
thusiasm  came  to  her  charged  with  passion  and  a  sort 
or  romance  such  as  her  hard  life  had  known  little  of. 
There  was  something  enticing  about  this  trip  to  the 
West. 

"  What'll  my  folks  say  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

A  virtual  surrender,  but  Rob  was  not  acute  enough 
to  see  it.  He  pressed  on  eagerly  : 

"  I    don't    care.      Do    you  ?      They'll   jest  keep   y' 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  161 

ploughin'  corn  and  milkin'  cows  till  the  day  of  judgment. 
Come,  Julyie,  I  ain't  got  no  time  to  fool  away.  I've 
got  t'  get  back  t'  that  grain.  It's  a  whoopin'  old  crop, 
sure's  y'r  born,  an'  that  means  sompin  purty  scrumptious 
in  furniture  this  fall.  Come,  now."  He  approached 
her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  very  much  as  he 
would  have  touched  Albert  Seagraves  or  any  other  com 
rade.  «  Whaddy  y'  say  ?  " 

She  neither  started  nor  shrunk  nor  looked  at  him. 
She  simply  moved  a  step  away.  "  They'd  never  let  me 
go,"  she  replied  bitterly.  "  I'm  too  cheap  a  hand.  I 
do  a  man's  work  an'  get  no  pay  at  all." 

"  You'll  have  half  o'  all  I  c'n  make,"  he  put  in. 

u  How  long  c'n  you  wait  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  down 
at  her  dress. 

"  Just  two  minutes,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his  watch. 
"  It  ain't  no  use  t'  wait.  The  old  man'll  be  jest  as  mad 
a  week  from  now  as  he  is  to-day.  Why  not  go  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  of  age  in  a  few  days,"  she  mused,  wavering, 
calculating. 

"  You  c'n  be  of  age  to-night  if  you'll  jest  call  on  old 
Squire  Hatfield  with  me." 

"All  right,  Rob,"  the  girl  said,  turning  and  holding 
out  her  hand. 

"  That's  the  talk  !  "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  it.  "  And 
now  a  kiss,  to  bind  the  bargain,  as  the  fellah  says." 

u  I  guess  we  c'n  get  along  without  that." 

"  No,  we  can't.  It  won't  seem  like  an  engagement 
without  it." 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to  seem  much  like  one,  anyway,"  she 

M 


1  62  Main  -Travelled  Roads 

answered,  with  a  sudden  realization  of  how  far  from  her 
dreams  of  courtship  this  reality  was. 

"  Say,  now,  Julyie,  that  ain't  fair  ;  it  ain't  treatin'  me 
right.  You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I  like  you, 
but  I  do." 

Rob  was  carried  quite  out  of  himself  by  the  time,  the 
place,  and  the  girl.  He  had  said  a  very  moving  thing. 

The  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  the  girl's  eyes. 
"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  If  y'  do,  you  may." 

She  was  trembling  with  emotion  for  the  first  time. 
The  sincerity  of  the  man's  voice  had  gone  deep. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  almost  timidly,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek,  a  great  love  for  her  springing  up  in 
his  heart.  "That  settles  it,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry, 
Julyie.  You'll  never  be  sorry  for  it.  Don't  cry.  It 
kind  o'  hurts  me  to  see  it." 

He  hardly  understood  her  feelings.  He  was  only 
aware  that  she  was  crying,  and  tried  in  a  bungling  way 
to  soothe  her.  But  now  that  she  had  given  way,  she 
sat  down  in  the  grass  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  Tulyie  !  "  yelled  the  vigilant  old  Norwegian,  like  a 
distant  foghorn. 

The  girl  sprang  up  ;  the  habit  of  obedience  was  strong. 

"  No  j  you  set  right  there,  and  I'll  go  round,"  he  said. 


The  boy  came  scrambling  out  of  the  wood,  half 
dressed.  Rob  tossed  him  upon  the  horse,  snatched 
Julia's  sun-bonnet,  put  his  own  hat  on  her  head,  and 
moved  off  down  the  corn-rows,  leaving  the  girl  smiling 
through  her  tears  as  he  whistled  and  chirped  to  the 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  163 

horse.  Farmer  Peterson,  seeing  the  familiar  sun-bonnet 
above  the  corn-rows,  went  back  to  his  work,  with  a 
sentence  of  Norwegian  trailing  after  him  like  the  tail  of 
a  kite  —  something  about  lazy  girls  who  didn't  earn  the 
crust  of  their  bread,  etc. 

Rob  was  wild  with  delight.  "  Git  up  there,  Jack ! 
Hay,  you  old  corncrib !  Say,  Otto,  can  you  keep  your 
mouth  shet  if  it  puts  money  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"  Jest  try  me  V  see,"  said  the  keen-eyed  little  scamp. 

"  Well,  you  keep  quiet  about  my  bein'  here  this  after 
noon,  and  I'll  put  a  dollar  on  y'r  tongue  —  hay  ?  —  what  ? 
—  understand  ? " 

"  Show  me  y'r  dollar,"  said  the  boy,  turning  about  and 
showing  his  tongue. 

"  All  right.  Begin  to  practise  now  by  not  talkin'  to 
me." 

Rob  went  over  the  whole  situation  on  his  way  back, 
and  when  he  got  in  sight  of  the  girl  his  plan  was  made. 
She  stood  waiting  for  him  with  a  new  look  on  her  face. 
Her  sullenness  had  given  way  to  a  peculiar  eagerness 
and  anxiety  to  believe  in  him.  She  was  already  living 
that  free  life  in  a  far-off,  wonderful  country.  No  more 
would  her  stern  father  and  sullen  mother  force  her  to 
tasks  which  she  hated.  She'd  be  a  member  of  a  new 
firm.  She'd  work,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  because 
she  wanted  to,  and  not  because  she  was  forced  to.  The 
independence  and  the  love  promised  grew  more  and 
more  attractive.  She  laughed  back  with  a  softer  light 
in  her  eyes,  when  she  saw  the  smiling  face  of  Rob  look 
ing  at  her  from  her  sun-bonnet. 


164  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"Now  you  mustn't  do  any  more  o'  this,"  he  said. 
"  You  go  back  to  the  house  an'  tell  y'r  mother  you're 
too  lame  to  plough  any  more  to-day,  and  it's  gettin'  late, 
anyhow.  To-night !  "  he  whispered  quickly.  "  Eleven  ! 
Here  !  " 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  with  fear.     "  I'm  afraid." 

"  Not  of  me,  are  yeh  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Rob." 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that.  I  —  i  want  you  —  to  like  me, 
Julyie  ;  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  try,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 

"  To-night,  then,"  he  said,  as  she  moved  away. 

"  To-night.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  till  her  tall  figure  was  lost 
among  the  drooping  corn-leaves.  There  was  a  singular 
choking  feeling  in  his  throat.  The  girl's  voice  and  face 
had  brought  up  so  many  memories  of  parties  and  picnics 
and  excursions  on  far-off  holidays,  and  at  the  same  time 
held  suggestions  of  the  future.  He  already  felt  that  it 
was  going  to  be  an  unconscionably  long  time  before 
eleven  o'clock. 

He  saw  her  go  to  the  house,  and  then  he  turned  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  dusty  road.  Out  of  the  May 
weed  the  grasshoppers  sprang,  buzzing  and  snapping  their 
dull  red  wings.  Butterflies,  yellow  and  white,  fluttered 
around  moist  places  in  the  ditch,  and  slender,  striped 
water-snakes  glided  across  the  stagnant  pools  at  sound 
of  footsteps. 

But    the    mind    of   the   man    was    far    away  on    his 


Among  the  Corn-Rows  165 

claim,  building  a  new  house,  with  a  woman's  advice  and 
presence. 

****** 

It  was  a  windless  night.  The  katydids  and  an  occa 
sional  cricket  were  the  only  sounds  Rob  could  hear  as  he 
stood  beside  his  team  and  strained  his  ear  to  listen.  At 
long  intervals  a  little  breeze  ran  through  the  corn  like  a 
swift  serpent,  bringing  to  his  nostrils  the  sappy  smell  of 
the  growing  corn.  The  horses  stamped  uneasily  as  the 
mosquitoes  settled  on  their  shining  limbs.  The  sky  was 
full  of  stars,  but  there  was  no  moon. 

"  What  if  she  don't  come  ?  "  he  thought.  "  Or  can't 
come  ?  I  can't  stand  that.  I'll  go  to  the  old  man  an* 
say, 'Looky  here  —  '  Sh  !  " 

He  listened  again.  There  was  a  rustling  in  the  corn. 
It  was  not  like  the  fitful  movement  of  the  wind ;  it  was 
steady,  slower,  and  approaching.  It  ceased.  He  whis 
tled  the  wailing,  sweet  cry  of  the  prairie-chicken.  Then 
a  figure  came  out  into  the  road  —  a  woman  —  Julia  ! 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  as  she  came  panting  up  to 
him. 

«  Rob !  " 

"  Julyie ! " 

****** 

A  few  words,  the  dull  tread  of  swift  horses,  the  rising 
of  a  silent  train  of  dust,  and  then  —  the  wind  wandered 
in  the  growing  corn,  the  dust  fell,  a  dog  barked  down 
the  road,  and  the  katydids  sang  to  the  liquid  contralto  of 
the  river  in  its  shallows. 


THE   RETURN   OF  A   PRIVATE 

"  On  the  road  leading  '  back  to 
God  *s  country '  and  wife  and 
babies" 


THE   RETURN   OF   A   PRIVATE 

THE  nearer  the  train  drew  toward  La  Crosse,  the 
soberer  the  little  group  of  u  vets  "  became.  On  the  long 
way  from  New  Orleans  they  had  beguiled  tedium  with 
jokes  and  friendly  chaff;  or  with  planning  with  elabo 
rate  detail  what  they  were  going  to  do  now,  after  the  war. 
A  long  journey,  slowly,  irregularly,  yet  persistently  push 
ing  northward.  When  they  entered  on  Wisconsin  terri 
tory  they  gave  a  cheer,  and  another  when  they  reached 
Madison,  but  after  that  they  sank  into  a  dumb  expect 
ancy.  Comrades  dropped  off  at  one  or  two  points  be 
yond,  until  there  were  only  four  or  five  left  who  were 
bound  for  La  Crosse  County. 

Three  of  them  were  gaunt  and  brown,  the  fourth  was 
gaunt  and  pale,  with  signs  of  fever  and  ague  upon  him. 
One  had  a  great  scar  down  his  temple,  one  limped,  and 
they  all    had    unnaturally   large,    bright    eyes,    showing 
emaciation.     There  were  no  bands  greeting  them  at  the 
station,  no  banks  of  gayly  dressed  ladies  waving  handker 
chiefs  and  shouting  "  Bravo  !  "  as  they  came  in  on  the  1 
caboose  of  a  freight  train  into  the  towns  that  had  cheered  J 
and  blared  at  them  on  their  way  to  war.     As  they  looked  * 
out  or  stepped  upon  the  platform  for  a  moment,  while  the 
train  stood  at  the  station,  the  loafers  looked  at  them  in 
differently.     Their  blue  coats,  dusty  and  grimy,  were  too 

169 


Main -Travelled  Roads 

imiliar  now  to  excite  notice,  much  less  a  friendly  word. 
^They  were  the  last  of  the  army  to  return,  and  the  loafers 
were  surfeited  with  such  sights. 

The  train  jogged  forward  so  slowly  that  it  seemed 
likely  to  be  midnight  before  they  should  reach  La  Crosse. 
The  little  squad  grumbled  and  swore,  but  it  was  no  use; 
the  train  would  not  hurry,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
nearly  two  o'clock  when  the  engine  whistled  u  down 
brakes." 

All  of  the  group  were  farmers,  living  in  districts  sev 
eral  miles  out  of  the  town,  and  all  were  poor. 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  Private  Smith,  he  of  the  fever  and 
ague,  "  we  are  landed  in  La  Crosse  in  the  night.  We've 
got  to  stay  somewhere  till  mornin'.  Now  I  ain't  got  no 
two  dollars  to  waste  on  a  hotel.  I've  got  a  wife  and 
children,  so  I'm  goin'  to  roost  on  a  bench  and  take  the 
cost  of  a  bed  out  of  my  hide." 

u  Same  here,"  put  in  one  of  the  other  men.  "  Hide'll 
grow  on  again,  dollars'll  come  hard.  It's  goin'  to  be 
mighty  hot  skirmishin'  to  find  a  dollar  these  days." 

"  Don't  think  they'll  be  a  deputation  of  citizens  waitin' 
to  'scort  us  to  a  hotel,  eh  ?  "  said  another.  His  sarcasm 
was  too  obvious  to  require  an  answer. 

Smith  went  on,  "Then  at  daybreak  we'll*  start  for 
home  —  at  least,  I  will." 

«  Well,  I'll  be  dummed  if  I'll  take  two  dollars  out  o' 
my  hide,"  one  of  the  younger  men  said.  u  I'm  goin'  to 
a  hotel,  ef  I  don't  never  lay  up  a  cent." 

"  That'll  do  f'r  you,"  said  Smith  ;  "  but  if  you  had  a 
wife  an'  three  young  uns  dependin'  on  yeh  —  " 


The  Return  of  a  Private  171 

"  Which  I  ain't,  thank  the  Lord !  and  don't  intend 
havin'  while  the  court  knows  itself." 

The  station  was  ^deserted,  chill,  and  dark,  as  they 
came  into  it  at  exactly  a  quarter  to  two  in  the  morning. 
Lit  by  the  oil  lamps  that  flared  a  dull  red  light  over  the 
dingy  benches,  the  waiting  room  was  not  an  inviting 
place.  The  younger  man  went  off  to  look  up  a  hotel, 
while  the  rest  remained  and  prepared  to  camp  down  on 
the  floor  and  benches.  Smith  was  attended  to  tenderly 
by  the  other  men,  who  spread  their  blankets  on  the 
bench  for  him,  and,  by  robbing  themselves,  made  quite 
a  comfortable  bed,  though  the  narrowness  of  the  bench 
made  his  sleeping  precarious. 

It  was  chill,  though  August,  and  the  two  men,  sitting 
with  bowed  heads,  grew  stiff  with  cold  and  weariness, 
and  were  forced  to  rise  now  and  again  and  walk  about 
to  warm  their  stiffened  limbs. '  It  did  not  occur  to  them, 
probably,  to  contrast  their  coming  home  with  their 
going  forth,  or  with  the  coming  home  of  the  generals, 
colonels,  or  even  captains  —  but  to  Private  Smith,  at 
any  rate,  there  came  a  sickness  at  heart  almost  deadly 
as  he  lay  there  on  his  hard  bed  and  went  over  his  situa 
tion. 

In  the  deep  of  the  night,  lying  on  a  board  in  the 
town  where  he  had  enlisted  three  years  ago,  all  elation 
and  enthusiasm  gone  out  of  him,  he  faced  the  fact  that 
with  the  joy  of  home-coming  was  already  mingled  the 
bitter  juice  of  care.  He  saw  himself  sick,  worn  out, 
taking  up  the  work  on  his  half-cleared  farm,  the  inevita 
ble  mortgage  standing  ready  with  open  jaw  to  swallow  h« 


172  Main -Travelled  Roads 

his  earnings.  He  had  given  three  years  of  his  life  for  a 
mere  pittance  of  pay,  and  now  !  — 

Morning  dawned  at  last,  slowly,  with  a  pale  yellow 
dome  of  light  rising  silently  above  the  bluffs,  which 
stand  like  some  huge  storm-devastated  castle,  just  east 
of  the  city.  Out  to  the  left  the  great  river  swept  on  its 
massive  yet  silent  way  to  the  south.  Bluejays  called 
across  the  water  from  hillside  to  hillside  through  the 
clear,  beautiful  air,  and  hawks  began  to  skim  the  tops 
of  the  hills.  The  older  men  were  astir  early,  but  Pri 
vate  Smith  had  fallen  at  last  into  a  sleep,  and  they  went 
out  without  waking  him.  He  lay  on  his  knapsack,  his 
gaunt  face  turned  toward  the  ceiling,  his  hands  clasped 
on  his  breast,  with  a  curious  pathetic  effect  of  weakness 
and  appeal. 

An  engine  switching  near  woke  him  at  last,  and  he 
slowly  sat  up  and  stared  about.  He  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  saw  that  the  sun  was  lightening  the  hills 
across  the  river.  He  rose  and  brushed  his  hair  as  well 
as  he  could,  folded  his  blankets  up,  and  went  out  to  find 
his  companions.  They  stood  gazing  silently  at  the  river 
and  at  the  hills. 

"  Looks  natcher'l,  don't  it  ? "  they  said,  as  he  came  out. 

"That's  what  it  does,"  he  replied.  "An'  it  looks 
good.  D'  yeh  see  that  peak  ?  "  He  pointed  at  a  beau 
tiful  symmetrical  peak,  rising  like  a  slightly  truncated 
cone,  so  high  that  it  seemed  the  very  highest  of  them 
all.  It  was  touched  by  the  morning  sun  and  it  glowed 
like  a  beacon,  and  a  light  scarf  of  gray  morning  fog  was 
rolling  up  its  shadowed  side. 


The  Return  of  a  Private  173 

u  My  farm's  just  beyond  that.  Now,  if  I  can  only 
ketch  a  ride,  we'll  be  home  by  dinner-time." 

"  I'm  talkin'  about  breakfast,"  said  one  of  the  others. 

u  I  guess  it's  one  more  meal  o'  hardtack  f  r  me," 
said  Smith. 

They  foraged  around,  and  finally  found  a  restaurant 
with  a  sleepy  old  German  behind  the  counter,  and  pro 
cured  some  coffee,  which  they  drank  to  wash  down  their 
hardtack. 

"  Time'll  come,"  said  Smith,  holding  up  a  piece  by 
the  corner,  u  when  this'll  be  a  curiosity." 

"  I  hope  to  God  it  will !  I  bet  I've  chawed  hardtack 
enough  to  shingle  every  house  in  the  coolly.  I've 
chawed  it  when  my  lan}puets-was  down,  and  when  they 
wasn't.  I've  took  it  dry,  soaked,  and  mashed.  I've 
had  it  wormy,  musty,  sour,  and  blue-mouldy.  I've  had 
it  in  little  bits  and  big  bits  ;  'fore  coffee  an'  after  coffee. 
I'm  ready  f  r  a  change.  I'd  like  t'  git  holt  jest  about 
now  o'  some  of  the  hot  biscuits  my  wife  c'n  make  when 
she  lays  herself  out  f  r  company." 

u  Well,  if  you  set  there  gabblin',  you'll  never  see  yer 
wife." 

"  Come  on,"  said  Private  Smith.  "  Wait  a  moment, 
boys ;  less  take  suthin'.  It's  on  me."  He  led  them  to 
the  rusty  tin  dipper  which  hung  on  a  nail  beside  the 
wooden  water-pail,  and  they  grinned  and  drank.  Then 
shouldering  their  blankets  and  muskets,  which  they  were 
"takin'  home  to  the  boys,"  they  struck  out  on  their  last 
march. 

u  They  called  that  coffee  Jayvy,"  grumbled  one  of 


174  Main -Travelled  Roads 

them,  but  it  never  went  by  the  road  where  govern 
ment  Jayvy  resides.  I  reckon  I  know  coffee  from 
peas." 

They  kept  together  on  the  road  along  the  turnpike,  and 
up  the  winding  road  by  the  river,  which  they  followed  for 
some  miles.  The  river  was  very  lovely,  curving  down 
along  its  sandy  beds,  pausing  now  and  then  under  broad 
basswood  trees,  or  running  in  dark,  swift,  silent  currents 
under  tangles  of  wild  grapevines,  and  drooping  alders,  and 
haw  trees.  At  one  of  these  lovely  spots  the  three  vets 
sat  down  on  the  thick  green  sward  to  rest,  u  on  Smith's 
account."  The  leaves  of  the  trees  were  as  fresh  and 
green  as  in  June,  the  jays  called  cheery  greetings  to 
them,  and  kingfishers  darted  to  and  fro  with  swooping, 
noiseless  flight. 

"  I  tell  yeh,  boys,  this  knocks  the  swamps  of  Louee- 
siana  into  kingdom  come." 

"You  bet.  All  they  c'n  raise  down  there  is  snakes, 
niggers,  and  p'rticler  hell." 

"  An'  fightin'  men,"  put  in  the  older  man. 

"An'  fightin'  men.  If  I  had  a  good  hook  an'  line  I'd 
sneak  a  pick'rel  out  o'  that  pond.  Say,  remember  that 
time  I  shot  that  alligator  —  " 

"I  guess  we'd  better  be  crawlin'  along,"  interrupted 
Smith,  rising  and  shouldering  his  knapsack,  with  con 
siderable  effort,  which  he  tried  to  hide. 

"  Say,  Smith,  lemme  give  you  a  lift  on  that." 

"  I  guess  I  c'n  manage,"  said  Smith,  grimly. 

"  Course.  But,  yo*  see,  I  may  not  have  a  chance 
right  off  to  pay  yeh  back  for  the  times  you've  carried 


The  Return  of  a  Private  175 

my  gun  and  hull  caboodle.     Say,  now,  gimme  that  gun, 
anyway." 

"All  right,  if  yeh  feel  like  it,  Jim,"  Smith  replied,  and 
they  trudged  along  doggedly  in  the  sun,  which  was  get 
ting  higher  and  hotter  each  half-mile. 

"Ain't  it  queer  there  ain't  no  teams  comin'  along," 
said  Smith,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  Well,  no,  seein's  it's  Sunday." 

"  By  jinks,  that's  a  fact.  It  is  Sunday.  I'll  git  home 
in  time  Pr  dinner,  sure!"  he  exulted.  "She  don't  hev 
dinner  usially  till  about  one  on  Sundays."  And  he  fell 
into  a  muse,  in  which  he  smiled. 

"Well,  I'll  git  home  jest  about  six  o'clock,  jest  about 
when  the  boys  are  milkin'  the  cows,"  said  old  Jim 
Cranby.  "I'll  step  into  the  barn,  an'  then  I'll  say: 
c  Utah  !  why  ain't  this  milkin'  done  before  this  time  o' 
day  ? '  An*  then  won't  they  yell !  "  he  added,  slapping 
his  thigh  in  great  glee. 

Smith  went  on.  "  I'll  jest  go  up  the  path.  Old 
Rover'll  come  down  the  road  to  meet  me.  He  won't 
bark ;  he'll  know  me,  an'  he'll  come  down  waggin'  his  tail 
an'  showin'  his  teeth.  That's  his  way  of  laughin'.  An' 
so  I'll  walk  up  to  the  kitchen  door,  an'  I'll  say,  *  Dinner 
fr  a  hungry  man  ! '  An'  then  she'll  jump  up,  an' — " 

He  couldn't  go  on.  His  voice  choked  at  the  thought 
of  it.  Saunders,  the  third  man,  hardly  uttered  a  word, 
but  walked  silently  behind  the  others.  He  had  lost  his 
wife  the  first  year  he  was  in  the  army.  She  died  of 
pneumonia,  caught  in  the  autumn  rains  while  working  2lsf 
in  the  fields  in  his  place.  mp 


176  Main -Travelled  Roads 

They  plodded  along  till  at  last  they  came  to  a  parting 
of  the  ways.  To  the  right  the  road  continued  up  the 
mam" valley;  to  the  left  it  went  over  the  big  ridge. 

"Well,  boys,"  began  Smith,  as  they  grounded  their 
muskets  and  looked  away  up  the  valley,  "  here's  where 
we  shake  hands.  We've  marched  together  a  good  many 
miles,  an'  now  I  s'pose  we're  done." 

"Yes,  I  don't  think  we'll  do  any  more  of  it  Pra  while. 
I  don't  want  to,  I  know." 

"  I  hope  I'll  see  yeh  once  in  a  while,  boys,  to  talk  over 
old  times." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Saunders,  whose  voice  trembled  a 
little,  too.  "  It  ain't  exactly  like  dyin'."  They  all  found 
it  hard  to  look  at  each  other. 

"  But  we'd  ought'r  go  home  with  you,"  said  Cranby. 
"You'll  never  climb  that  ridge  with  all  them  things  on 
yer  back." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right !  Don't  worry  about  me.  Every 
step  takes  me  nearer  home,  yeh  see.  Well,  good-by, 
boys." 

They  shook  hands.     "  Good-by.     Good  luck  !  " 

"Same  to  you.  Lemme  know  how  you  find  things  at 
home." 

"  Good-by." 

"  Good-by." 

He  turned  once  before  they  passed  out  of  sight,  and 
waved  his  cap,  and  they  did  the  same,  and  all  yelled. 
Then  all  marched  away  with  their  long,  steady,  loping, 
veteran  step.  The  solitary  climber  in  blue  walked  on 
for  a  time,  with  his  mind  filled  with  the  kindness  of  his 


The  Return  of  a  Private  177 

comrades,  and  musing  upon  the  many  wonderful  days 
they  had  had  together  in  camp  and  field. 

He  thought  of  his  chum,  Billy  Tripp.  Poor  Billy  ! 
A  u  minie  "  ball  fell  into  his  breast  one  day,  fell  wailing 
like  a  cat,  and  tore  a  great  ragged  hole  in  his  heart. 
He  looked  forward  to  a  sad  scene  with  Billy's  mother 
and  sweetheart.  They  would  want  to  know  all  about 
it.  He  tried  to  recall  all  that  Billy  had  said,  and  the 
particulars  of  it,  but  there  was  little  to  remember,  just 
that  wild  wailing  sound  high  in  the  air,  a  dull  slap,  a 
short,  quick,  expulsive  groan,  and  the  boy  lay  with  his 
face  in  the  dirt  in  the  ploughed  field  they  were  marching 
across. 

That  was  all.  But  all  the  scenes  he  had  since  been 
through  had  not  dimmed  the  horror,  the  terror  of  that 
moment,  when  his  boy  comrade  fell,  with  only  a  breath 
between  a  laugh  and  a  death-groan.  Poor  handsome 
Billy !  Worth  millions  of  dollars  was  his  young  life. — • 

These  sombre  recollections  gave  way  at  length  to 
more  cheerful  feelings  as  he  began  to  approach  his  home 
coolly.  The  fields  and  houses  grew  familiar,  and  in  one 
or  two  he  was  greeted  by  people  seated  in  the  doorways. 
But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  talk,  and  pushed  on  steadily, 
though  he  stopped  and  accepted  a  drink  of  milk  once  at 
the  well-side  of  a  neighbor. 

The  sun  was  burning  hot  on  that  slope,  and  his  step 
grew  slower,  in  spite  of  his  iron  resolution.  He  sat 
down  several  times  to  rest.  Slowly  he  crawled  up  the 
rough,  reddish-brown  road,  which  wound  along  the  hill 
side,  under  great  trees,  through  dense  groves  of  jack 


178  Main-Travelled  Roads 

oaks,  with  tree-tops  far  below  him  on  his  left  hand,  and 
the  hills  far  above  him  on  his  right.  He  crawled  along 
like  some  minute,  wingless  variety  of  fly. 

He  ate  some  hardtack,  sauced  with  wild  berries,  when 
he  reached  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  and  sat  there  for 
some  time,  looking  down  into  his  home  coolly. 

Sombre,  pathetic  figure  !  His  wide,  round,  gray  eyes 
gazing  down  into  the  beautiful  valley,  seeing  and  not 
seeing,  the  splendid  cloud-shadows  sweeping  over  the 
western  hills  and  across  the  green  and  yellow  wheat  far 
below.  His  head  drooped  forward  on  his  palm,  his 
shoulders  took  on  a  tired  stoop,  his  cheek-bones  showed 
painfully.  ]j  An  observer  might  have  said,  "  He  is  look 
ing  down  upon  his  own  grave."  | 

II 

Sunday  comes  in  a  Western  wheat  harvest  with  such 
sweet  and  sudden  relaxation  to  man  and  beast  that  it 
would  be  holy  for  that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  and  Sun 
days  are  usually  fair  in  harvest-time.  As  one  goes  out 
into  the  field  in  the  hot  morning  sunshine,  with  no  sound 
abroad  save  the  crickets  and  the  indescribably  pleasant 
silken  rustling  of  the  ripened  grain,  the  reaper  and  the 
very  sheaves  in  the  stubble  seem  to  be  resting,  dreaming. 
Around  the  house,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  the  men 
sit,  smoking,  dozing,  or  reading  the  papers,  while  the 
twomen,  never  jesting,  move  about  at  the  houseworlt. 
eat  on  Sundays  about  the  same  as  on  other 
\cJ^ys,  and  breakfast  is  no  sooner  over  and  out  of  the  way 
n  dinner  begins. 


The  Return  of  a  Private  179 

But  at  the  Smith  farm  there  were  no  men  dozing  or 
reading.  Mrs.  Smith  was  alone  with  her  three  children, 
Mary,  nine,  Tommy,  six,  and  little  Ted,  just  past  four. 
Her  farm,  rented  to  a  neighbor,  lay  at  the  head  of  a 
coolly  or  narrow  gully,  made  at  some  far-off  post-glacial 
period  by  the  vast  and  angry  floods  of  water  which 
gullied  these  tremendous  furrows  in  the  level  prairie  — 
furrows  so  deep  that  undisturbed  portions  of  the  original 
level  rose  like  hills  on  either  side,  rose  to  quite  con 
siderable  mountains. 

The  chickens  wakened  her  as  usual  that  Sabbath 
morning  from  dreams  of  her  absent  husband,  from 
whom  she  had  not  heard  for  weeks.  The  shadows 
drifted  over  the  hills,  down  the  slopes,  across  the  wheat, 
and  up  the  opposite  wall  in  leisurely  way,  as  if,  being 
Sunday,  they  could  take  it  easy  also.  The  fowls  clus 
tered  about  the  housewife  as  she  went  out  into  the  yard. 
Fuzzy  little  chickens  swarmed  out  from  the  coops, 
where  their  clucking  and  perpetually  disgruntled  mothers 
tramped  about,  petulantly  thrusting  their  heads  through 
the  spaces  between  the  slats. 

A  cow  called  in  a  deep,  musical  bass,  and  a  calf  an 
swered  from  a  little  pen  near  by,  and  a  pig  scurried 
guiltily  out  of  the  cabbages.  Seeing  all  this,  seeing  the 
pig  in  the  cabbages,  the  tangle  of  grass  in  the  garden, 
the  broken  fence  which  she  had  mended  again  and  again 
—  the  little  woman,  hardly  more  than  a  girl,  sat  down 
and  cried.  The  bright  Sabbath  morning  was  only  a 
mockery  without  him  ! 

A  few  years  ago  they  had  bought  this  farm,  paying 


180  Main -Travelled  Roads 

part,  mortgaging  the  rest  in  the  usual  way.  Edward 
Smith  was  a  man  of  terrible  energy.  He  worked 
"  nights  and  Sundays,"  as  the  saying  goes,  to  clear  the 
farm  of  its  brush  and  of  its  insatiate  mortgage !  In  the 
midst  of  his  Herculean  struggle  came  the  call  for  volun 
teers,  and  with  the  grim  and  unselfish  devotion  to  his 
country  which  made  the  Eagle  Brigade  able  to  "  whip 
its  weight  in  wild-cats,"  he  threw  down  his  scythe  and 
.grub-axe,  turned  his  cattle  loose,  and  became  a  blue- 
l  coated  cog  in  a  vffi  rn^ chine  for  killing  men,  and  not 
thistles.  While  the  millionaire  sent  his  money  to  Eng 
land  for  safe- keeping,  this  man,  with  his  girl-wife  and 
three  babies,  left  them  on  a  mortgaged  farm,  and  went 
away  to  fight  for  an  idea.  It  was  foolish,  but  it  was 
sublime  for  all  that. 

That  was  three  years  before,  and  the  young  wife,  sit 
ting  on  the  well-curb  on  this  bright  Sabbath  harvest 
morning,  was  righteously  rebellious.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  borne  her  share  of  the  country's  sorrow. 
Two  brothers  had  been  killed,  the  renter  in  whose  hands 
her  husband  had  left  the  farm  had  proved  a  villain ;  one 
year  the  farm  had  been  without  crops,  and  now  the  over 
ripe  grain  was  waiting  the  tardy  hand  of  the  neighbor 
who  had  rented  it,  and  who  was  cutting  his  own  grain 
first. 

About  six  weeks  before,  she  had  received  a  letter  say 
ing,  "  We'll  be  discharged  in  a  little  while."  But  no 
other  word  had  come  from  him.  She  had  seen  by  the 
papers  that  his  army  was  being  discharged,  and  from  day 
to  day  other  soldiers  slowly  percolated  in  blue  streams 


The  Return  of  a  Private  181 

back  into  the  State  and  county,  but  still  her  hero  did  not 
return. 

Each  week  she  had  told  the  children  that  he  was  com 
ing,  and  she  had  watched  the  road  so  long  that  it  had 
become  unconscious ;  and  as  she  stood  at  the  well,  or 
by  the  kitchen  door,  her  eyes  were  fixed  unthinkingly  on 
the  road  that  wound  down  the  coolly. 

Nothing  wears  on  the  human  soul  like  waiting.  If 
the  stranded  mariner,  searching  the  sun-bright  seas,  could 
once  give  up  hope  of  a  ship,  that  horrible  grinding  on 
his  brain  would  cease.  It  was  this  waiting,  hoping,  on 
the  edge  of  despair,  that  gave  Emma  Smith  no  rest. 

Neighbors  said,  with  kind  intentions :  u  He's  sick, 
maybe,  an'  can't  start  north  just  yet.  He'll  come  along 
one  o'  these  days." 

u  Why  don't  he  write  ? "  was  her  question,  which 
silenced  them  all.  This  Sunday  morning  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  could  not  stand  it  longer.  The  house 
seemed  intolerably  lonely.  So  she  dressed  the  little  ones 
in  their  best  calico  dresses  and  home-made  jackets,  and, 
closing  up  the  house,  set  off  down  the  coolly  to  old 
Mother  Gray's. 

"  Old  Widder  Gray "  lived  at  the  "  mouth  of  the 
coolly."  She  was  a  widow  woman  with  a  large  family 
of  stalwart  boys  and  laughing  girls.  She  was  the  visible 
incarnation  of  hospitality  and  optimistic  poverty.  With 
Western  open-heartedness  she  fed  every  mouth  that 
asked  food  of  her,  and  worked  herself  to  death  as  cheer 
fully  as  her  girls  danced  in  the  neighborhood  harvest 
dances. 


1 82  Main -Travelled  Roads 

She  waddled  down  the  path  to  meet  Mrs.  Smith  with 
a  broad  smile  on  her  face. 

"  Oh,  you  little  dears  !  Come  right  to  your  granny. 
Gimme  me  a  kiss  !  Come  right  in,  Mis'  Smith.  How 
are  yeh,  anyway  ?  Nice  mornin',  ain't  it  ?  Come  in 
an'  set  down.  Everything's  in  a  clutter,  but  that  won't 
scare  you  any." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  best  room,  a  sunny,  square 
room,  carpeted  with  a  faded  and  patched  rag  carpet,  and 
papered  with  white-and-green-striped  wall-paper,  where 
a  few  faded  effigies  of  dead  members  of  the  family  hung 
in  variously  sized  oval  walnut  frames.  The  house  re 
sounded  with  singing,  laughter,  whistling,  tramping  of 
heavy  boots,  and  riotous  scufflings.  Half-grown  boys 
came  to  the  door  and  crooked  their  ringers  at  the  children, 
who  ran  out,  and  were  soon  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  fun. 

"  Don't  s'pose  you've  heard  from  Ed  ?  "  Mrs.  Smith 
shook  her  head.  "  He'll  turn  up  some  day,  when  you 
ain't  lookin'  for  'm."  The  good  old  soul  had  said  that 
so  many  times  that  poor  Mrs.  Smith  derived  no  comfort 
from  it  any  longer. 

"  Liz  heard  from  Al  the  other  day.  He's  comin' 
some  day  this  week.  Anyhow,  they  expect  him." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  of — " 

"  No,  he  didn't,"  Mrs.  Gray  admitted.  "  But  then 
it  was  only  a  short  letter,  anyhow.  Al  ain't  much  for 
writin',  anyhow. —  But  come  out  and  see  my  new  cheese. 
I  tell  yeh,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  had  better  luck  in  my 
life.  If  Ed  should  come,  I  want  you  should  take  him 
up  a  piece  of  this  cheese/' 


The  Return  of  a  Private  183 

It  was  beyond  human  nature  to  resist  the  influence  of 
that  noisy,  hearty,  loving  household,  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  singing  and  laughing  the  wife  forgot  her  anxiety,  for 
the  time  at  least,  and  laughed  and  sang  with  the  rest. 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  wagon-load  more  drove  up  to 
the  door,  and  Bill  Gray,  the  widow's  oldest  son,  and  his 
whole  family,  from  Sand  Lake  Coollyj  piled  out  amid  a 
good-natured  uproar.  Every  one  talked  at  once,  except 
Bill,  who  sat  in  the  wagon  with  his  wrists  on  his  knees, 
a  straw  in  his  mouth,  and  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

"  Ain't  heard  nothin'  o'  Ed,  I  s'pose  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
kind  of  bellow.  Mrs.  Smith  shook  her  head.  Bill,  with 
a  delicacy  very  striking  in  such  a  great  giant,  rolled  his 
quid  in  his  mouth,  and  said  : 

"Didn't  know  but  you  had.  I  hear  two  or  three  of 
the  Sand  Lake  boys  are  comin'.  Left  New  Orleenes 
some  time  this  week.  Didn't  write  nothin'  about  Ed, 
but  no  news  is  good  news  in  such  cases,  mother  always 
says." 

"  Well,  go  put  out  yer  team,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "  an' 
go  'n  bring  me  in  some  taters,  an',  Sim,  you  go  see  if  you 
c'n  find  some  corn.  Sadie,  you  put  on  the  water  to  bile. 
Come  now,  hustle  yer  boots,  all  o'  yeh.  If  I  feed  this 
yer  crowd,  we've  got  to  have  some  raw  materials.  If 
y'  think  I'm  goin'  to  feed  yeh  on  pie  —  you're  jest 
mightily  mistaken." 

The  children  went  off  into  the  fields,  the  girls  put 
dinner  on  to  boil,  and  then  went  to  change  their  dresses 
and  fix  their  hair.  "  Somebody  might  come,"  they  said. 


184  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Land  sakes,  /  hope  not !  I  don't  know  where  in 
time  Pd  set  'em,  'less  they'd  eat  at  the  second  table," 
Mrs.  Gray  laughed,  in  pretended  dismay. 

The  two  older  boys,  who  had  served  their  time  in  the 
army,  lay  out  on  the  grass  before  the  house,  and  whittled 
and  talked  desultorily  about  the  war  and  the  crops,  and 
planned  buying  a  threshing-machine.  The  older  girls 
and  Mrs.  Smith  helped  enlarge  the  table  and  put  on  the 
dishes,  talking  all  the  time  in  that  cheery,  incoherent,  and 
meaningful  way  a  group  of  such  women  have, —  a  con 
versation  to  be  taken  for  its  spirit  rather  than  for  its 
letter,  though  Mrs.  Gray  at  last  got  the  ear  of  them  all 
and  <cjls§ejrtated  at  length  on  girls. 

"  Girls  in  love  ain't  no  use  in  the  whole  blessed  week," 
she  said.  "Sundays  they're  a-lookin'  down  the  road,  ex- 
pectin'  he'll  come.  Sunday  afternoons  they  can't  think 
o'  nothin'  else,  'cause  he's  here.  Monday  mornin's 
they're  sleepy  and  kind  o'  dreamy  and  slimpsy,  and  good 
f'r  nothin'  on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday.  Thursday  they 
git  absent-minded,  an'  begin  to  look  off  toward  Sunday 
agin,  an'  mope  aroun'  and  let  the  dishwater  git  cold,  right 
under  their  noses.  Friday  they  break  dishes,  an'  go  off 
in  the  best  room  an'  snivel,  an'  look  out  o'  the  winder. 
Saturdays  they  have  queer  spurts  o'  workin'  like  all 
p'ssessed,  an'  spurts  o'  frizzin'  their  hair.  An'  Sunday 
they  begin  it  all  over  agin." 

The  girls  giggled  and  blushed,  all  through  this  tirade 
from  their  mother,  their  broad  faces  and  powerful  frames 
anything  but  suggestive  of  lackadaisical  sentiment.  But 
Mrs.  Smith  said : 


The  Return  of  a  Private  185 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Gray,  I  hadn't  ought  to  stay  to  dinner. 
You've  got  — " 

"  Now  you  set  right  down  !  If  any  of  them  girls' 
beaus  comes,  they'll  have  to  take  what's  left,  that's  all. 
They  ain't  s'posed  to  have  much  appetite,  nohow.  No, 
you're  goin'  to  stay  if  they  starve,  an'  they  ain't  no  dan 
ger  o'  that." 

At  one  o'clock  the  long  table  was  piled  with  boiled 
potatoes,  cords  of  boiled  corn  on  the  cob,  squash  and 
pumpkin  pies,  hot  biscuit,  sweet  pickles,  bread  and  butter, 
and  honey.  Then  one  of  the  girls  took  down  a  conch- 
shell  from  a  nail,  and  going  to  the  door,  blew  a  long, 
fine,  free  blast,  that  showed  there  was  no  weakness  of 
lungs  in  her  ample  chest- 
Then  the  children  came  out  of  the  forest  of  corn,  out 
of  the  creek,  out  of  the  loft  of  the  barn,  and  out  of  the 
garden. 

"  They  come  to  their  feed  f  r  all  the  world  jest  like 
the  pigs  when  y*  holler  l  poo-ee  ! '  See  'em  scoot !  " 
laughed  Mrs.  Gray,  every  wrinkle  on  her  face  shining 
with  delight. 

The  men  shut  up  their  jack-knives,  and  surrounded 
the  horse-trough  to  souse  their  faces  in  the  cold,  hard 
water,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  table  was  filled  with 
a  merry  crowd,  and  a  row  of  wistful-eyed  youngsters 
circled  the  kitchen  wall,  where  they  stood  first  on  one 
leg  and  then  on  the  other,  in  impatient  hunger. 

"  Now  pitch  in,  Mrs.  Smith,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  pre 
siding  over  the  table.  u  You  know  these  men  critters. 
They'll  eat  every  grain  of  it,  if  yeh  give  'em  a  chance. 


1 86  Main -Travelled  Roads 

I  swan,  they're  made  o'  India-rubber,  their  stomachs  is, 
I  know  it." 

"  Haf  to  eat  to  work,"  said  Bill,  gnawing  a  cob  with  a 
swift,  circular  motion  that  rivalled  a  corn-sheller  in  results. 

"  More  like  workin'  to  eat,"  put  in  one  of  the  girls, 
with  a  giggle.  "  More  eat  'n  work  with  you." 

"You  needn't  say  anything,  Net.  Any  one  that'll  eat 
seven  ears  —  " 

"  I  didn't,  no  such  thing.  You  piled  your  cobs  on 
my  plate." 

"  That'll  do  to  tell  Ed  Varney.  It  won't  go  down 
here  where  we  know  yeh." 

"  Good  land  !  Eat  all  yeh  want !  They's  plenty 
more  in  the  fiel's,  but  I  can't  afford  to  give  you  young 
uns  tea.  The  tea  is  for  us  women-folks,  and  'specially 
Pr  Mis'  Smith  an'  Bill's  wife.  We're  a-goin'  to  tell 
fortunes  by  it." 

One  by  one  the  men  filled  up  and  shoved  back,  and 
one  by  one  the  children  slipped  into  their  places,  and  by 
two  o'clock  the  women  alone  remained  around  the 
debris-covered  table,  sipping  their  tea  and  telling  for 
tunes. 

As  they  got  well  down  to  the  grounds  in  the  cup, 
they  shook  them  with  a  circular  motion  in  the  hand, 
and  then  turned  them  bottom-side-up  quickly  in  the 
saucer,  then  twirled  them  three  or  four  times  one  way, 
and  three  or  four  times  the  other,  during  a  breathless 
pause.  Then  Mrs.  Gray  lifted  the  cup,  and,  gazing 
into  it  with  profound  gravity,  pronounced  the  impend 
ing  fate, 


The  Return  of  a  Private  187 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  to  a  critical  observer,  she 
had  abundant  preparation  for  hitting  close  to  the  mark, 
as  when  she  told  the  girls  that  "somebody  was  comin'." 
"  It's  a  man,"  she  went  on  gravely.  "  He  is  cross 
eyed—  " 

"  Oh,  you  hush  !  "  cried  Nettie. 

"  He  has  red  hair,  and  is  death  on  b'iled  corn  and  hot 
biscuit." 

The  others  shrieked  with  delight. 

"  But  he's  goin'  to  get  the  mitten,  that  red-headed 
feller  is,  for  I  see  another  feller  comin'  up  behind  him." 

"  Oh,  lemme  see,  lemme  see  !  "  cried  Nettie. 

"  Keep  off,"  said  the  priestess,  with  a  lofty  gesture. 
il  His  hair  is  black.  He  don't  eat  so  much,  and  he 
works  more." 

The  girls  exploded  in  a  shriek  of  laughter,  and 
pounded  their  sister  on  the  back. 

At  last  came  Mrs.  Smith's  turn,  and  she  was  trem 
bling  with  excitement  as  Mrs.  Gray  again  composed  her 
jolly  face  to  what  she  considered  a  proper  solemnity  of 
expression. 

"Somebody  is  comin'  to  you"  she  said,  after  a  long 
pause.  "  He's  got  a  musket  on  his  back.  He's  a 
soldier.  He's  almost  here.  See  ?  " 

She  pointed  at  two  little  tea-stems,  which  really  formed 
a  faint  suggestion  of  a  man  with  a  musket  on  his  back. 
He  had  climbed  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  cup.  Mrs. 
Smith  grew  pale  with  excitement.  She  trembled  so  she 
could  hardly  hold  the  cup  in  her  hand  as  she  gazed 

into  it,  \ 

I 


1 88  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  It's  Ed,"  cried  the  old  woman.  "  He's  on  the  way 
home.  Heavens  an'  earth  1  There  he  is  now  !  "  She 
turned  and  waved  her  hand  out  toward  the  road.  They 
rushed  to  the  door  to  look  where  she  pointed. 

A  man  in  a  blue  coat,  with  a  musket  on  his  back, 
was  toiling  slowly  up  the  hill  on  the  sun-bright,  dusty 
road,  toiling  slowly,  with  bent  head  half  hidden  by  a 
heavy  knapsack.  So  tired  it  seemed  that  walking  was 
indeed  a  process  of  falling.  So  eager  to  get  home  he 
would  not  stop,  would  not  look  aside,  but  plodded  on, 
amid  the  cries  of  the  locusts,  the  welcome  of  the  crickets, 
and  the  rustle  of  the  yellow  wheat.  Getting  back  to 
God's  country,  and  his  wife  and  babies  ! 

Laughing,  crying,  trying  to  call  him  and  the  children 
at  the  same  time,  the  little  wife,  almost  hysterical, 
snatched  her  hat  and  ran  out  into  the  yard.  But  the 
soldier  had  disappeared  over  the  hill  into  the  hollow 
beyond,  and,  by  the  time  she  had  found  the  children, 
he  was  too  far  away  for  her  voice  to  reach  him.  And, 
besides,  she  was  not  sure  it  was  her  husband,  for  he  had 
not  turned  his  head  at  their  shouts.  This  seemed  so 
strange.  Why  didn't  he  stop  to  rest  at  his  old  neigh 
bor's  house  ?  Tortured  by  hope  and  doubt,  she  hurried 
up  the  coolly  as  fast  as  she  could  push  the  baby  wagon, 
the  blue-coated  figure  just  ahead  pushing  steadily,  silently 
forward  up  the  coolly. 

When  the  excited,  panting  little  group  came  in  sight 
of  the  gate  they  saw  the  blue-coated  figure  standing, 
leaning  upon  the  rough  rail  fence,  his  chin  on  his  palms, 
gazing  at  the  empty  house.  His  knapsack,  canteen, 


The  Return  of  a  Private  189 

blankets,  and  musket  lay  upon  the  dusty  grass  at  his 
feet. 

He  was  like  a  man  lost  in  a  dream.  His  wide,  hun 
gry  eyes  devoured  the  scene.  The  rough  lawn,  the 
little  unpainted  house,  the  field  of  clear  yellow  wheat 
behind  it,  down  across  which  streamed  the  sun,  now 
almost  ready  to  touch  the  high  hill  to  the  west,  the  crickets 
crying  merrily,  a  cat  on  the  fence  near  by,  dreaming, 
unmindful  of  the  stranger  in  blue  — 

How  peaceful  it  all  was.  O  God  !  How  far  re 
moved  from  all  camps,  hospitals,  battle  lines.  A  little 
cabin  in  a  Wisconsin  coolly,  but  it  was  majestic  in  its 
peace.  How  did  he  ever  leave  it  for  those  years  of 
tramping,  thirsting,  killing  ? 

Trembling,  weak  with  emotion,  her  eyes  on  the 
silent  figure,  Mrs.  Smith  hurried  up  to  the  fence.  Her 
feet  made  no  noise  in  the  dust  and  grass,  and  they  were 
close  upon  him  before  he  knew  of  them.  The  oldest 
boy  ran  a  little  ahead.  He  will  never  forget  that  figure, 
that  face.  It  will  always  remain  as  something  epic, 
that  return  of  the  private.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
pale  face  covered  with  a  ragged  beard. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir  ? "  asked  the  wife,  or,  rather, 
started  to  ask,  for  he  turned,  stood  a  moment,  and  then 
cried : 

"  Emma  !  " 

«  Edward  !  " 

The  children  stood  in  a  curious  row  to  see  their 
mother  kiss  this  bearded,  strange  man,  the  elder  girl 

sobbing  s^vjnj^hetjcalipwith  her  mother.      Illness  had 
/**""^  r^f^' '""" 

1    .s- 


190  Main -Travelled  Roads 

left  the  soldier  partly  deaf,  and  this  added  to  the  strange 
ness  of  his  manner. 

But  the  youngest  child  stood  away,  even  after  the 
girl  had  recognized  her  father  and  kissed  him.  The 
man  turned  then  to  the  baby,  and  said  in  a  curiously 
unpaternal  tone : 

"  Come  here,  my  little  man  ;  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 
But  the  baby  backed  away  under  the  fence  and  stood 
peering  at  him  critically. 

"  My  little  man  !  "  What  meaning  in  those  words ! 
This  baby  seemed  like  some  other  woman's  child,  and 
not  the  infant  he  had  left  in  his  wife's  arms.  The  war 
had  come  between  him  and  his  baby  —  he  was  only  a 
strange  man  to  him,  with  big  eyes ;  a  soldier,  with 
mother  hanging  to  his  arm,  and  talking  in  a  loud 
voice. 

"And  this  is  Tom,"  the  private  said,  drawing  the 
oldest  boy  to  him.  "  He  II  come  and  see  me.  He 
knows  his  poor  old  pap  when  he  comes  home  from  the 
war." 

The  mother  heard  the  pain  and  reproach  in  his  voice 
and  hastened  to  apologize. 

"You've  changed  so,  Ed.  He  can't  know  yeh. 
This  is  papa,  Teddy ;  come  and  kiss  him  —  Tom  and 
Mary  do.  Come,  won't  you  ? "  But  Teddy  still 
peered  through  the  fence  with  solemn  eyes,  well  out 
of  reach.  He  resembled  a  half-wild  kitten  that  hesi 
tates,  studying  the  tones  of  one's  voice. 

"  I'll  fix  him,"  said  the  soldier,  and  sat  down  to  undo 
his  knapsack,  out  of  which  he  drew  three  enormous  and 


The  Return  of  a  Private  191 

very  red  apples.  After  giving  one  to  each  of  the  older 
children,  he  said : 

"  Now  I  guess  he'll  come.  Eh,  my  little  man  ? 
Now  come  see  your  pap." 

Teddy  crept  slowly  under  the  fence,  assisted  by  the 
overzealous  Tommy,  and  a  moment  later  was  kicking 
and  squalling  in  his  father's  arms.  Then  they  entered 
the  house,  into  the  sitting  room,  poor,  bare,  art-forsaken 
little  room,  too,  with  its  rag  carpet,  its  square  clock,  and 
its  two  or  three  chromes  and  pictures  from  Harper's 
Weekly  pinned  about. 

"  Emma,  I'm  all  tired  out,"  said  Private  Smith,  as  he 
flung  himself  down  on  the  carpet  as  he  used  to  do, 
while  his  wife  brought  a  pillow  to  put  under  his  head, 
and  the  children  stood  about  munching  their  apples. 

u  Tommy,  you  run  and  get  me  a  pan  of  chips,  and 
Mary,  you  get  the  tea-kettle  on,  and  I'll  go  and  make 
some  biscuit." 

And  the  soldier  talked.  Question  after  question  he 
poured  forth  about  the  crops,  the  cattle,  the  renter,  the 
neighbors.  He  slipped  his  heavy  government  brogan 
shoes  off  his  poor,  tired,  blistered  feet,  and  lay  out  with 
utter,  sweet  relaxation.  He  was  a  free  man  again,  no 
longer  a  soldier  under  command.  At  supper  he  stopped 
once,  listened  and  smiled.  "  That's  old  Spot.  I  know 
her  voice.  I  s'pose  that's  her  calf  out  there  in  the  pen. 
I  can't  milk  her  to-night,  though.  I'm  too  tired.  But 
I  tell  you,  I'd  like  a  drink  o'  her  milk.  What's  become 
of  old  Rove  ?  " 

"  He  died  last  winter.     Poisoned,  I  guess,"     There 


192  Main -Travelled  Roads 

was  a  moment  of  sadness  for  them  all.  It  was  some 
time  before  the  husband  spoke  again,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  a  little. 

"  Poor  old  feller  !  He'd  V  known  me  half  a  mile 
away.  I  expected  him  to  come  down  the  hill  to  meet 
me.  It  'ud  'a'  been  more  like  comin'  home  if  I  could 
V  seen  him  comin'  down  the  road  an'  waggin'  his  tail, 
an'  laughin'  that  way  he  has.  I  tell  yeh,  it  kind  o'  took 
hold  o'  me  to  see  the  blinds  down  an'  the  house  shut 
up." 

u  But,  yeh  see,  we  —  we  expected  you'd  write  again 
'fore  you  started.  And  then  we  thought  we'd  see  you 
if  you  did  come,"  she  hastened  to  explain. 

u  Well,  I  ain't  worth  a  cent  on  writin'.  Besides,  it's 
just  as  well  yeh  didn't  know  when  I  was  comin'.  I  tell 
you,  it  sounds  good  to  hear  them  chickens  out  there,  an' 
turkeys,  an'  the  crickets.  Do  you  know  they  don't 
have  just  the  same  kind  o'  crickets  down  South  ?  Who's 
Sam  hired  t'  help  cut  yer  grain  ?  " 

"  The  Ramsey  boys." 

"  Looks  like  a  good  crop ;  but  I'm  afraid  I  won't  do 
much  gettin'  it  cut.  This  cussed  fever  an'  ague  has 
got  me  down  pretty  low.  I  don't  know  when  I'll  get 
rid  of  it.  I'll  bet  I've  took  twenty-five  pounds  of  qui 
nine  if  I've  taken  a  bit.  Gimme  another  biscuit.  I 
tell  yeh,  they  taste  good,  Emma.  I  ain't  had  anything 
like  it —  Say,  if  you'd  'a'  hear'd  me  braggin'  to  th' 
boys  about  your  butter  V  biscuits  I'll  bet  your  ears  'ud 
V  burnt." 

The    private's   wife    colored    with    pleasure.     "  Oh, 


The  Return  of  a  Private  193 

you're  always  a-braggin'  about  your  things.      Everybody 
makes  good  butter." 

"  Yes  ;  old  lady  Snyder,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  well,  she  ain't  to  be  mentioned.     She's  Dutch." 

"  Or  old  Mis'  Snively.  One  more  cup  o'  tea,  Mary. 
That's  my  girl !  I'm  feeling  better  already.  I  just 
b'lievc  the  matter  with  me  is,  I'm  starved" 

This  was  a  delicious  hour,  one  long  to  be  remem 
bered.  They  were  like  lovers  again.  But  their  tender 
ness,  like  that  of  a  typical  American  family,  found 
utterance  in  tones,  rather  than  in  words.  He  was  prais 
ing  her  when  praising  her  biscuit,  and  she  knew  it. 
They  grew  soberer  when  he  showed  where  he  had  been 
struck,  one  ball  burning  the  back  of  his  hand,  one  cut 
ting  away  a  lock  of  hair  from  his  temple,  and  one  pass 
ing  through  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  wife  shuddered  to 
think  how  near  she  had  come  to  being  a  soldier's  widow. 
Her  waiting  no  longer  seemed  hard.  This  sweet,  glori 
ous  hour  effaced  it  all. 

Then  they  rose,  and  all  went  out  into  the  garden  and 
down  to  the  barn.  He  stood  beside  her  while  she 
milked  old  Spot.  They  began  to  plan  fields  and  crops 
for  next  year. 

His  farm  was  weedy  and  encumbered,  a  rascally 
renter  had  run  away  with  his  machinery  (departing  be 
tween  two  days),  his  children  needed  clothing,  the  years 
were  coming  upon  him,  he  was  sick  and  emaciated,  but 
his  heroic  soul  did  not  quail.  With  the  same  courage 
with  which  he  had  faced  his  Southern  march  he  entered 
upon  a  still  more  hazardous  future. 
o 


194 


Main -Travelled  Roads 


Oh,  that  mystic  hour  !  The  pale  man  with  big  eyes 
standing  there  by  the  well,  with  his  young  wife  by  his 
side.  The  vast  moon  swinging  above  the  eastern  peaks, 
the  cattle  winding  down  the  pasture  slopes  with  jangling 
bells,  the  crickets  singing,  the  stars  blooming  out  sweet 
and  far  and  serene ;  the  katydids  rhythmically  calling, 
the  little  turkeys  crying  querulously,  as  they  settled  to 
roost  in  the  poplar  tree  near  the  open  gate.  The  voices 
at  the  well  drop  lower,  the  little  ones  nestle  in  their 
father's  arms  at  last,  and  Teddy  falls  asleep  there. 

The  common  soldier  of  the  American  volunteer  army 
had  returned.  His  war  with  the  South  was  over,  and 
his  fight,  his  daily  running  fight  with  nature  and  against 
the  injustice  of  his  fellow-men,  was  begun  again. 


UNDER   THE   LION'S   PAW 

ct  Along  this  main-travelled  road  trailed  an  endless  line 
of  prairie  schooners,  coming  into  sight  at  the  east,  and 
passing  out  of  sight  over  the  swell  to  the  west.  We 
children  used  to  wonder  where  they  were  going  and 
wby  they  went" 


UNDER   THE    LION'S   PAW 

IT  was  the  last  of  autumn  and  first  day  of  winter 
coming  together.  All  day  long  the  ploughmen  on  their 
prairie  farms  had  moved  to  and  fro  in  their  wide  level 
fields  through  the  falling  snow,  which  melted  as  it  fell, 
wetting  them  to  the  skin  —  all  day,  notwithstanding  the 
frequent  squalls  of  snow,  the  dripping,  desolate  clouds, 
and  the  muck  of  the  furrows,  black  and  tenacious  as 
tar. 

Under  their  dripping  harness  the  horses  swung  to  and 
fro  silently,  with  that  marvellous  uncomplaining  patience 
which  marks  the  horse.  All  day  the  wild  geese,  honk 
ing  wildly,  as  they  sprawled  sidewise  down  the  wind, 
seemed  to  be  fleeing  from  an  enemy  behind,  and  with 
neck  outthrust  and  wings  extended,  sailed  down  the 
wind,  soon  lost  to  sight. 

Yet  the  ploughman  behind  his  plough,  though, 
snow  lay  on  his  ragged  great-coat,  and  the  cold  clinging 
mud  rose  on  his  heavy  boots,  fettering  him  like  gyves, 
whistled  in  the  very  beard  of  the  gale.  As  day  passed, 
the  snow,  ceasing  to  melt,  lay  along  the  ploughed  land, 
and  lodged  in  the  depth  of  the  stubble,  till  on  each  slow 
round  the  last  furrow  stood  out  black  and  shining  as  jet 
between  the  ploughed  land  and  the  gray  stubble. 

When  night  began  to  fall,  and  the  geese,  flying  low, 
197 


198  Maln-Travelle  1.  Roads 

began  to  alight  invisibly  in  the  near  corn-field,  Stephen 
Council  was  still  at  work  "  finishi  g  a  land."  He  rode 
on  his  sulky  plough  when  going  ,ith  the  wind,  but 
walked  when  facing  it.  Sitting  bent  and  cold  but 
cheery  under  his  "slouch  hat,  he  talked  encouragingly  to 
his  four-in-hand. 

"  Come  round  there,  boys  !  —  Round  agin  !  We  got 
t*  finish  this  land.  Come  in  there,  Dan  !  Stiddy,  Kate, 
—  stiddy  !  None  o'  y'r  tantrums,  Kittie.  It's  purty 
tuff,  but  got  a  be  did.  Tchk  !  tcbk  !  Step  along,  Pete  ! 
Don't  let  Kate  git  y'r  single-tree  on  the  wheel.  Once 
more  !  " 

They  seemed  to  know  what  he  meant,  and  that  this 
was  the  last  round,  for  they  worked  with  greater  vigor 
than  before. 

"  Once  more,  boys,  an*  then,  sez  I,  oats  an'  a  nice 
warm  stall,  an'  sleep  f'r  all." 

By  the  time  the  last  furrow  was  turned  on  the  land  it 
was  too  dark  to  see  the  house,  and  the  snow  was  chang 
ing  to  rain  again.  The  tired  and  hungry  man  could  see 
the  light  from  the  kitchen  shining  through  the  leafless 
hedge,  and  he  lifted  a  great  shout,  "  Supper  Pr  a  half  a 
dozen !  " 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  by  the  time  he  had  finished 
his  chores  and  started  for  supper.  He  was  picking  his 
way  carefully  through  the  mud,  when  the  tall  form 
of  a  man  loomed  up  before  him  with  a  premonitory 
cough. 

"  Waddy  ye  want  ?  "  was  the  rather  startled  question 
pf  the  farmer. 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  199 

"  Well,  ye  see,"  began  the  stranger,  in  a  deprecating 
tone,  "  we'd  like  t'  git  in  Pr  the  night.  We've  tried 
every  house  Pr  the  last  two  miles,  but  they  hadn't  any 
room  f 'r  us.  My  wife's  jest  about  sick,  'n'  the  children 
are  cold  and  hungry  — " 

"  Oh,  y'  want  'o  stay  all  night,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  it  'ud  be  a  great  accom — " 

"  Waal,  I  don't  make  it  a  practice  t'  turn  anybuddy 
way  hungry,  not  on  sech  nights  as  this.  Drive  right 
in.  We  ain't  got  much,  but  sech  as  it  is  — " 

But  the  stranger  had  disappeared.  And  soon  his 
steaming,  weary  team,  with  drooping  heads  and  swinging 
single-trees,  moved  past  the  well  to  the  block  beside  the 
path.  Council  stood  at  the  side  of  the  "  schooner " 
and  helped  the  children  out — two  little  half-sleeping 
children  —  and  then  a  small  woman  with  a  babe  in  her 
arms. 

"  There  ye  go  !  "  he  shouted  jovially,  to  the  children. 
u  Now  we're  all  right !  Run  right  along  to  the  house 
there,  an'  tell  Mam'  Council  you  wants  sumpthin'  t'  eat. 
Right  this  way,  Mis' —  keep  right  off  t'  the  right  there. 
I'll  go  an'  git  a  lantern.  Come,"  he  said  to  the  dazed 
and  silent  group  at  his  side. 

"  Mother,"  he  shouted,  as  he  neared  the  fragrant  and 
warmly  lighted  kitchen,  "here  are  some  wayfarers  an' 
folks  who  need  sumpthin'  t'  eat  an'  a  place  t'  snooze." 
He  ended  by  pushing  them  all  in. 

Mrs.  Council,  a  large,  jolly,  rather  coarse-looking 
woman,  took  the  children  in  her  arms.  "  Come  right 
in,  you  little  rabbits.  'Most  asleep,  hey  ?  Now  here's 


2oo  Main -Travelled  Roads 

a  drink  o'  milk  f'r  each  o'  ye.  I'll  have  s'm  tea  in 
a  minute.  Take  off  y'r  things  and  set  up  t'  the 
fire." 

While  she  set  the  children  to  drinking  milk,  Council 
got  out  his  lantern  and  went  out  to  the  barn  to  help 
the  stranger  about  his  team,  where  his  loud,  hearty 
voice  could  be  heard  as  it  came  and  went  between  the 
haymow  and  the  stalls. 

The  woman  came  to  light  as  a  small,  timid,  and 
discouraged-looking  woman,  but  still  pretty,  in  a  thin 
and  sorrowful  way. 

"  Land  sakes  !  An'  you've  travelled  all  the  way 
from  Clear  Lake  t'-day  in  this  mud  !  Waal !  waal ! 
No  wonder  you're  all  tired  out.  Don't  wait  f'r  the 
men,  Mis'  — "  She  hesitated,  waiting  for  the  name. 

«  Haskins." 

"  Mis'  Haskins,  set  right  up  to  the  table  an'  take  a 
good  swig  o'  tea  whilst  I  make  y'  s'm  toast.  It's  green 
tea,  an'  it's  good.  I  tell  Council  as  I  git  older  I  don't 
seem  to  enjoy  Young  Hyson  n'r  Gunpowder.  I  want 
the  reel  green  tea,  jest  as  it  cornes  off'n  the  vines. 
Seems  t'  have  more  heart  in  it,  some  way.  Don't  s'pose 
it  has.  Council  says  it's  all  in  m'  eye." 

Going  on  in  this  easy  way,  she  soon  had  the  chil 
dren  filled  with  bread  and  milk  and  the  woman  thor 
oughly  at  home,  eating  some  toast  and  sweet-melon 
pickles,  and  sipping  the  tea. 

"  See  the  little  rats  !  "  she  laughed  at  the  children. 
"  They're  full  as  they  can  stick  now,  and  they  want 
to  go  to  bed.  Now,  don't  git  up,  Mis'  Haskins  i  set 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  201 

right  where  you  are  an'  let  me  look  after  'em.  I  know 
all  about  young  ones,  though  I'm  all  alone  now.  Jane 
went  an'  married  last  fall.  But,  as  I  tell  Council,  it's 
lucky  we  keep  our  health.  Set  right  there,  Mis'  Has- 
kins  ;  I  won't  have  you  stir  a  finger." 

It  was  an  unmeasured  pleasure  to  sit  there  in  the 
warm,  homely  kitchen,  the  jovial  chatter  of  the  house 
wife  driving  out  and  holding  at  bay  the  growl  of  the 
impotent,  cheated  wind. 

The  little  woman's  eyes  filled  with  tears  which  fell 
down  upon  the  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms.  The  world 
was  not  so  desolate  and  cold  and  hopeless,  after  all. 

"  Now  I  hope  Council  won't  stop  out  there  and 
talk  politics  all  night.  He's  the  greatest  man  to  talk 
politics  an'  read  the  Tribune —  How  old  is  it  ?  " 

She  broke  off  and  peered  down  at  the  face  of  the 
babe. 

"  Two  months  'n'  five  days,"  said  the  mother,  with 
a  mother's  exactness. 

"  Ye  don't  say  !  I  want  'o  know  !  The  dear  little 
pudzy-wudzy ! "  she  went  on,  stirring  it  up  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  ribs  with  her  fat  forefinger. 

"  Pooty  tough  on  'oo  to  go  gallivant'n'  'cross  lots 
this  way — " 

"  Yes,  that's  so ;  a  man  can't  lift  a  mountain,"  said 
Council,  entering  the  door.  "  Mother,  this  is  Mr. 
Haskins,  from  Kansas.  He's  been  eat  up  'n'  drove  out 
by  grasshoppers." 

44  Glad  t'  see  yeh !  —  Pa,  empty  that  wash-basin  'n' 
give  him  a  chance  t'  wash." 


2O2  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Haskins  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  thin,  gloomy  face. 
His  hair  was  a  reddish  brown,  like  his  coat,  and  seemed 
equally  faded  by  the  wind  and  sun,  and  his  sallow 
face,  though  hard  and  set,  was  pathetic  somehow.  You 
would  have  felt  that  he  had  suffered  much  by  the  line 
of  his  mouth  showing  under  his  thin,  yellow  mustache. 

"  Hain't  Ike  got  home  yet,  Sairy  ? " 

"  Hain't  seen  'im." 

« W-a-a-1,  set  right  up,  Mr.  Haskins ;  wade  right 
into  what  we've  got ;  'tain't  much,  but  we  manage  to 
live  on  it  —  she  gits  fat  on  it,"  laughed  Council,  point 
ing  his  thumb  at  his  wife. 

After  supper,  while  the  women  put  the  children  to 
bed,  Haskins  and  Council  talked  on,  seated  near  the 
huge  cooking-stove,  the  steam  rising  from  their  wet 
clothing.  In  the  Western  fashion  Council  told  as  much 
of  his  own  life  as  he  drew  from  his  guest.  He  asked 
but  few  questions,  but  by  and  by  the  story  of  Haskins' 
struggles  and  defeat  come  out.  The  story  was  a  terrible 
one,  but  he  told  it  quietly,  seated  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  gazing  most  of  the  time  at  the  hearth. 

"  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  the  country,  anyhow," 
Haskins  said,  partly  rising  and  glancing  at  his  wife. 
"  I  was  ust  t'  northern  Ingyannie,  where  we  have  lots 
o'  timber  'n'  lots  o'  rain,  V  I  didn't  like  the  looks  o' 
that  dry  prairie.  What  galled  me  the  worst  was  goin' 
s'  far  away  acrosst  so  much  fine  land  layin'  all  through 
here  vacant." 

"And  the  'hoppers  eat  ye  four  years,  hand  runnin', 
did  they?" 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  203 

j  "  Eat !  They  wiped  us  out.  They  chawed  every 
thing  that  was  green.  They  jest  set  around  waitin'  f 'r 
:us  to  die  t'  eat  us,  too.  My  God  !  I  ust  t'  dream  of 
;^em  sittin'  'round  on  the  bedpost,  six  feet  long,  workin' 
iheir  jaws.  They  eet  the  fork-handles.  They  got 
worse  V  worse  till  they  jest  rolled  on  one  another, 
l'.  piled  up  like  snow  in  winter.  Well,  it  ain't  no  use. 
If  I  was  t'  talk  all  winter  I  couldn't  tell  nawthin'. 
But  all  the  while  I  couldn't  help  thinkin'  of  all  that  land 
back  here  that  nobuddy  was  usin'  that  I  ought  'o  had 
'stead  o'  bein'  out  there  in  that  cussed  country." 

"  Waal,  why  didn't  ye  stop  an'  settle  here  ? " 
asked  Ike,  who  had  come  in  and  was  eating  his 
supper. 

"  Fer  the  simple  reason  that  you  fellers  wantid  ten  Jr 
fifteen  dollars  an  acre  fer  the  bare  land,  and  I  hadn't  no 
money  fer  that  kind  o'  thing." 

"  Yes,  I  do  my  own  work,"  Mrs.  Council  was  heard 
to  say  in  the  pause  which  followed.  u  I'm  a  gettin' 
purty  heavy  t'  be  on  m'  laigs  all  day,  but  we  can't  afford 
t'  hire,  so  I  keep  rackin'  around  somehow,  like  a  foundered 
horse.  S'  lame  —  I  tell  Council  he  can't  tell  how  lame 
I  am,  f'r  I'm  jest  as  lame  in  one  laig  as  t'other."  And 
the  good  soul  laughed  at  the  joke  on  herself  as  she  took 
a  handful  of  flour  and  dusted  the  biscuit-board  to  keep 
the  dough  from  sticking. 

"Well,  I  hain't  never  been  very  strong,"  said  Mrs. 
Haskins.  "  Our  folks  was  Canadians  an'  small-boned, 
and  then  since  my  last  child  I  hain't  got  up  again  fairly. 
I  don't  like  t'  complain.  Tim  has  about  all  he  can 


£04  Main -Travelled  Roads 

bear  now  —  but  they  was  days  this  week  when  I  jest 
wanted  to  lay  right  down  an'  die." 

"Waal,  now,  I'll  tell  ye,"  said  Council,  from  his  side 
of  the  stove,  silencing  everybody  with  his  good-natured 
roar,  <c  I'd  go  down  and  see  Butler,  anyway,  if  I  was  you. 
I  guess  he'd  let  you  have  his  place  purty  cheap;  the 
farm's  all  run  down.  He's  ben  anxious  t'  let  t'  some- 
buddy  next  year.  It  'ud  be  a  good  chance  fer  you. 
Anyhow,  you  go  to  bed  and  sleep  like  a  babe.  I've 
got  some  ploughin'  t'  do,  anyhow,  an'  we'll  see  if  some- 
thin'  can't  be  done  about  your  case.  Ike,  you  go  out 
an*  see  if  the  horses  is  all  right,  an'  I'll  show  the  folks 
t'  bed." 

When  the  tired  husband  and  wife  were  lying  under 
the  generous  quilts  of  the  spare  bed,  Haskins  listened  a 
moment  to  the  wind  in  the  eaves,  and  then  said,  with 
a  slow  and  solemn  tone, 

"There  are  people  in  this  world  who  are  good  enough 
t'  be  angels,  an'  only  haff  t'  die  to  be  angels." 

II 

Jim  Butler  was  one  of  those  men  called  in  the  West 
j"land  poor."  Early  in  the  history  of  Rock  River  he 
fhad  come  into  the  town  and  started  in  the  grocery 
[business  in  a  small  way,  occupying  a  small  building  in  a 
mean  part  of  the  town.  At  this  period  of  his  life  he 
earned  all  he  got,  and  was  up  early  and  late  sorting  beans, 
working  over  butter,  and  carting  his  goods  to  and  from 
the  station.  But  a  change  came  over  him  at  the  end 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  205 

of  the  second  year,  when  he  sold  a  lot  of  land  for  four 
times  what  he  paid  for  it.  From  that  time  forward  he 
believed  in  land  speculation  as  the  surest  way  of  getting 
rich.  Every  cent  he  could  save  or  spare  from  his  trade 
he  put  into  land  at  forced  sale,  or  mortgages  on  land, 
which  were  "just  as  good  as  the  wheat,"  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  say.  — — 

Farm  after  farm  fell  into  his  hands,  until  he  was  rec 
ognized  as  one  of  the  leading  landowners  of  the  county. 
Jrjis  mortgages  were  scattered  all  over  Cedar  County,  and 
as  they  slowly  but  surely  fell   in   he  sought  usually  to 
retain  the  former  owner  as  tenant. 

He  was  not  ready  to  foreclose ;  indeed,  he  had  the 
name  of  being  one  of  the  "  easiest "  men  in  the  town. 
He  let  the  debtor  off  again  and  again,  extending  the  time 
whenever  possible. 

"I  don't  want  y'r  land,"  he  said.  "All  I'm  after  is 
the  int'rest  on  my  money  —  that's  all.  Now,  if  y'  want 
'o  stay  on  the  farm,  why,  I'll  give  y'  a  good  chance.  I 
can't  have  the  land  layin'  vacant."  And  in  many  cases 
the  owner  remained  as  tenant. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  sold  his  store ;  he  couldn't 
spend  time  in  it ;  he  was  mainly  occupied  now  with 
sitting  around  town  on  rainy  days  smoking  and  "  gassin'  ' 
with  the  boys,"  or  in  riding  to  and  from  his  farms.  In 
fishing-time  he  fished  a  good  deal.  Doc  Grimes,  Ben 
Ashley,  and  Cal  Cheatham  were  his  cronies  on  these 
fishing  excursions  or  hunting  trips  in  the  time  of  chick 
ens  or  partridges.  In  winter  they  went  to  Northern 
Wisconsin  to  shoot  deer. 


206  Main -Travelled  Roads 

In  spite  of  all  these  signs  of  easy  life  Butler  persisted 
in  saying  he  "  hadn't  enough  money  to  pay  taxes  on  his 
land,"  and  was  careful  to  convey  the  impression  that  he 
was  poor  in  spite  of  his  twenty  farms.  At  one  time 
he  was  said  to  be  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars,  but  land 
had  been  a  little  slow  of  sale  of  late,  so  that  he  was  not 
worth  so  much. 

A  fine  farm,  known  as  the  Higley  place,  had  fallen 
into  his  hands  in  the  usual  way  the  previous  year,  and 
he  had  not  been  able  to  find  a  tenant  for  it.  Poor  Hig 
ley,  after  working  himself  nearly  to  death  on  it  in  the 
attempt  to  lift  the  mortgage,  had  gone  off  to  Dakota, 
leaving  the  farm  and  his  curse  to  Butler. 

This  was  the  farm  which  Council  advised  Haskins 
to  apply  for ;  and  the  next  day  Council  hitched  up  his 
team  and  drove  down  town  to  see  Butler. 

"  You  jest  let  me  do  the  talking"  he  said.  "  We'll 
find  him  wearin'  out  his  pants  on  some  salt  barrel  some- 
w'ers ;  and  if  he  thought  you  wanted  a  place  he'd  sock 
it  to  you  hot  and  heavy.  You  jest  keep  quiet  ;  I'll  fix 
'im." 

Butler  was  seated  in  Ben  Ashley's  store  telling  fish 
yarns  when  Council  sauntered  in  casually. 

"  Hello,  But ;  lyin'  agin,  hey  ?  " 

"  Hello,  Steve  !  how  goes  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so-so.  Too  dang  much  rain  these  days.  I 
thought  it  was  goin'  t'  freeze  up  f'r  good  last  night. 
Tight  squeak  if  I  get  m'  ploughin'  done.  How's 
farmin'  with  you  these  days  ?  " 

"  Bad.     Ploughin'  ain't  half  done." 


Urder  the  Lion's  Paw  207 

"  It  'ud  be  a  religious  idee  Pr  you  t'  go  out  an*  take 
a  hand  y'rself." 

"  I  don't  haff  to,"  said  Butler,  with  a  wink. 

"  Got  anybody  on  the  Higley  place  ?  " 

"  No.      Know  of  anybody  ?  " 

u  Waal,  no ;  not  eggsackly.  I've  got  a  relation  back 
t'  Michigan  who's  ben  hot  an'  cold  on  the  idee  o'  comin' 
West  Pr  some  time.  Might  come  if  he  could  get  a  good 
lay-out.  What  do  you  talk  on  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  d'  know.  I'll  rent  it  on  shares  or  I'll  rent 
it  money  rent." 

"  Waal,  how  much  money,  say  ?  " 

"  Well,  say  ten  per  cent,  on  the  price  —  two- 
fifty." 

"  Waal,  that  ain't  bad.  Wait  on  'im  till  'e 
thrashes?" 

Haskins  listened  eagerly  to  his  important  question, 
but  Council  was  coolly  eating  a  dried  apple  which  he 
had  speared  out  of  a  barrel  with  his  knife.  Butler  studied 
him  carefully. 

"Well,  knocks  me  out  of  twenty-five  dollars  in 
terest." 

"  My  relation'!!  need  all  he's  got  t'  git  his  crops  in," 
said  Council,  in  the  safe,  indifferent  way. 

"  Well,  all  right  j  say  wait,"  concluded  Butler. 

"  All  right ;  this  is  the  man.  Haskins,  this  is  Mr. 
Butler  —  no  relation  to  Ben  —  the  hardest-working  man 
in  Cedar  County." 

On  the  way  home  Haskins  said :  "  I  ain't  much 
better  off,  I'd  like  that  farm  ;  it's  a  good  farm,  but  it's 


2o8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

all  run  down,  an*  so  'm  I.  I  could  make  a  good  farm 
of  it  if  I  had  half  a  show.  But  I  can't  stock  it  n'r 
seed  it." 

"  Waal,  now,  don't  you  worry,"  roared  Council  in 
his  ear.  "  We'll  pull  y'  through  somehow  till  next 
harvest.  He's  agreed  t'  hire  it  ploughed,  an'  you  can 
earn  a  hundred  dollars  ploughin'  an'  y'  c'n  git  the  seed 
o'  me,  an'  pay  me  back  when  y'  can." 

Raskins  was  silent  with  emotion,  but  at  last  he  said, 
UI  ain't  got  nothin'  t'  live  on." 

"  Now,  don't  you  worry  'bout  that.  You  jest  make 
your  headquarters  at  ol'  Steve  Council's.  Mother'll 
take  a  pile  o'  comfort  in  havin'  y'r  wife  an'  children 
'round.  Y'  see,  Jane's  married  off  lately,  an'  Ike's 
away  a  good  'eal,  so  we'll  be  darn  glad  t'  have  y'  stop 
with  us  this  winter.  Nex'  spring  we'll  see  if  y'  can't 
git  a  start  agin."  And  he  chirruped  to  the  team,  which 
sprang  forward  with  the  rumbling,  clattering  wagon. 

"  Say,  looky  here,  Council,  you  can't  do  this.  I  never 
saw  —  "  shouted  Haskins  in  his  neighbor's  ear. 

Council  moved  about  uneasily  in  his  seat  and  stopped 
his  stammering  gratitude  by  saying  :  "  Hold  on,  now  j 
don't  make  such  a  fuss  over  a  little  thing.  When  I  see 
a  man  down,  an'  things  all  on  top  of  'm,  I  jest  like  t' 
kick  'em  off  an'  help  'm  up.  That's  the  kind  of  re 
ligion  I  got,  an'  it's  about  the  only  kind." 

They  rode  the  rest  of  the  way  home  in  silence.  And 
when  the  red  light  of  the  lamp  shone  out  into  the  dark 
ness  of  the  cold  and  windy  night,  and  he  thought  of 
this  refuge  for  his  children  and  wife,  Haskins  could 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  209 

have  put  his  arm  around  the  neck  of  his  burly  com 
panion  and  squeezed  him  like  a  lover.  But  he  con 
tented  himself  with  saying,  "  Steve  Council,  you'll 
git  y'r  pay  f 'r  this  some  day." 

"  Don't  want  any  pay.  My  religion  ain't  run  on  such 
business  principles." 

The  wind  was  growing  colder,  and  the  ground  was 
covered  with  a  white  frost,  as  they  turned  into  the  gate 
of  the  Council  farm,  and  the  children  came  rushing  out, 
shouting,  "  Papa's  come  !  "  They  hardly  looked  like 
the  same  children  who  had  sat  at  the  table  the  night 
before.  Their  torpidity,  under  the  influence  of  sunshine 
and  Mother  Council,  had  given  way  to  a  sort  of  spas 
modic  cheerfulness,  as  insects  in  winter  revive  when 
laid  on  the  hearth. 


Ill 

Raskins  worked  like  a  fiend,  and  his  wife,  like  the 
heroic  woman  that  she  was,  bore  also  uncomplainingly 
the  most  terrible  burdens.  They  rose  early  and  toiled 
without  intermission  till  the  darkness  fell  on  the  plain, 
then  tumbled  into  bed,  every  bone  and  muscle  aching 
with  fatigue,  to  rise  with  the  sun  next  morning  to  the 
same  round  of  the  same  ferocity  of  labor. 

The  eldest  boy  drove  a  team  all  through  the  spring, 
ploughing  and  seeding,  milked  the  cows,  and  did  chores 
innumerable,  in  most  ways  taking  the  place  of  a 
man. 


aio  Main -Travelled  Roads 

L 

An  infinitely  pathetic  but  common  figure  —  this  boy 
on  the  American  farm,  where  there  is  no  law  against 
child  labor.  To  see  him  in  his  coarse  clothing,  his 
huge  boots,  and  his  ragged  cap,  as  he  staggered  with  a 
pail  of  water  from  the  well,  or  trudged  in  the  cold  and 
/cheerless  dawn  out  into  the  frosty  field  behind  his  team, 
gave  the  city-bred  visitor  a  sharp  pang  of  sympathetic 
pain.  Yet  Haskins  loved  his  boy,  and  would  have  saved 
him  from  this  if  he  could,  but  he  could  not. 

By  June  the  first  year  the  result  of  such  Herculean  toil 
began  to  show  on  the  farm.  The  yard  was  cleaned  up 
and  sown  to  grass,  the  garden  ploughed  and  planted,  and 
the  house  mended. 

Council  had  given  them  four  of  his  cows. 

"Take  'em  an'  run  'em  on  shares.  I  don't  want  'o 
milk  s'  many.  Ike's  away  s'  much  now,  Sat'd'ys  an' 
Sund'ys,  I  can't  stand  the  bother  anyhow." 

Other  men,  seeing  the  confidence  of  Council  in  the 
newcomer,  had  sold  him  tools  on  time ;  and  as  he  was 
really  an  able  farmer,  he  soon  had  round  him  many  evi 
dences  of  his  care  and  thrift.  At  the  advice  of  Council 
he  had  taken  the  farm  for  three  years,  with  the  privilege 
of  re-renting  or  buying  at  the  end  of  the  term. 

"  It's  a  good  bargain,  an'  y'  want  'o  nail  it,"  said 
Council.  "If  you  have  any  kind  ov  a  crop,  you  c'n 
pay  y'r  debts,  an'  keep  seed  an'  bread." 

The  new  hope  which  now  sprang  up  in  the  heart  of 
Haskins  and  his  wife  grew  great  almost  as  a  pain  by  the 
time  the  wide  field  of  wheat  began  to  wave  and  rustle 
and  swirl  in  the  winds  of  July.  Day  after  day  he 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  211 

would  snatch  a  few  moments  after  supper  to  go  and  look 
at  it. 

"  Have  ye  seen  the  wheat  t'-day,  Nettie  ?  "  he  asked 
one  night  as  he  rose  from  supper. 

"  No,  Tim,  I  ain't  had  time." 

"  Well,  take  time  now.     Le's  go  look  at  it." 

She  threw  an  old  hat  on  her  head  —  Tommy's  hat  — 
and  looking  almost  pretty  in  her  thin,  sad  way,  went  out 
with  her  husband  to  the  hedge. 

"  Ain't  it  grand,  Nettie  ?     Just  look  at  it." 

It  was  grand.  Level,  russet  here  and  there,  heavy- 
headed,  wide  as  a  lake,  and  full  of  multitudinous  whis 
pers  and  gleams  of  wealth,  it  stretched  away  before  the 
gazers  like  the  fabled  field  of  the  cloth  of  gold. 

"  Oh,  I  think  —  I  hope  we'll  have  a  good  crop,  Tim; 
and  oh,  how_  good  the  people  have  been  to  us ! " 

"  Yes  5  I  don't  know  where  we'd  be  t'-day  if  it  hadn't 
ben  Pr  Council  and  his  wife." 

"  They're  the  best  people  in  the  world,"  said  the  little 
woman,  with  a  great  sob  of  gratitude. 

"We'll  be  in  the  field  on  Monday,  sure,"  said  Haskins, 
gripping  the  rail  on  the  fence  as  if  already  at  the  work 
of  the  harvest. 

The  harvest  came,  bounteous,  glorious,  but  the  'wtnHs 
came  and  blew  it  into  tangles,  and  the  rain  matted  it 
here  and  there  close  to  the  ground,  increasing  the  work 
of  gathering  it  threefold. 

Oh,  how  they  toiled  in  those  glorious  days  !  Cloth 
ing  dripping  with  sweat,  arms  aching,  filled  with  briers, 
fingers  raw  and  bleeding,  backs  broken  with  the  weight 


212  Main -Travelled  Roads 

of  heavy  bundles,  Haskins  and  his  man  toiled  on. 
Tommy  drove  the  harvester,  while  his  father  and  a 
hired  man  bound  on  the  machine.  In  this  way  they 
cut  ten  acres  every  day,  and  almost  every  night  after  sup 
per,  when  the  hand  went  to  bed,  Haskins  returned  to 
the  field  shocking  the  bound  grain  in  the  light  of  the 
moon.  Many  a  night  he  worked  till  his  anxious  wife 
came  out  at  ten  o'clock  to  call  him  in  to  rest  and  lunch. 

At  the  same  time  she  cooked  for  the  men,  took  care 
of  the  children,  washed  and  ironed,  milked  the  cows  at 
night,  made  the  butter,  and  sometimes  fed  the  horses  and 
watered  them  while  her  husband  kept  at  the  shocking. 

No  slave  in  the  Roman  galleys  could  have  toiled  so 
|  frigfitfuily.  and  lived,  fo£^^j^n^jhought,]ymself  a  free 
I*  man,  and  that  he  was  working  for  his  wife  and  babes. 

Wfien  he  sanklnto  his  bed  with  a  deep  groan  of  re 
lief,  too  tired  to  change  his  grimy,  dripping  clothing,  he 
felt  that  he  was  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to  a  home  of 
his  own,  and  pushing  the  wolf  of  want  a  little  farther 
from  his  door. 

There  is  no  despair  so  deep  as  the  despair  of  a  home 
less  man  or  woman.  To  roam  the  roads  of  the  country 
or  the  streets  of  the  city,  to  feel  there  is  no  rood  of 
ground  on  which  the  feet  can  rest,  to  halt  weary  and 
hungry  outside  lighted  windows  and  hear  laughter  and 
song  within,  —  these  are  the  hungers  and  rebellions  that 
drive  men  to  crime  and  women  to  shame. 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  homelessness,  and  the  fear  of 
its  coming  again,  that  spurred  Timothy  Haskins  and  Net 
tie,  his  wife,  to  such  ferocious  labor  during  that  first  year. 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  213 

IV 

"  'M,  yes ;  'm,  yes  ;  first-rate,"  said  Butler,  as  his  eye 
took  in  the  neat  garden,  the  pig-pen,  and  the  well-filled 
barnyard.  "  You're  gitt'n'  quite  a  stock  around  yeh. 
Done  well,  eh  ?  " 

Haskins  was  showing  Butler  around  the  place.  He 
had  not  seen  it  for  a  year,  having  spent  the  year  in 
Washington  and  Boston  with  Ashley,  his  brother-in-law, 
who  had  been  elected  to  Congress. 

u  Yes,  I've  laid  out  a  good  deal  of  money  durin'  the 
last  three  years.  I've  paid  out  three  hundred  dollars  Pr 
fencin'." 

"  Um  —  h'm  !  I  see,  I  see,"  said  Butler,  while  Has 
kins  went  on  : 

"  The  kitchen  there  cost  two  hundred ;  the  barn  ain't 
cost  much  in  money,  but  I've  put  a  lot  o'  time  on  it.  I've 
dug  a  new  well,  and  I  —  " 

"Yes, yes,  I  see.  You've  done  well.  Stock  worth  a 
thousand  dollars,"  said  Butler,  picking  his  teeth  with  a 
straw. 

"  About  that,"  said  Haskins,  modestly.  "  We  begin 
to  feel 's  if  we  was  gitt'n'  a  home  f'r  ourselves  ;  but  we've 
worked  hard.  I  tell  you  we  begin  to  feel  it,  Mr.  Butler, 
and  we're  goin'  t*  begin  to  ease  up  purty  soon.  We've 
been  kind  o'  plannin'  a  trip  back  t'  her  folks  after  the 
fall  pioughin's  done." 

"  Eggs-zct\y  \  "  said  Butler,  who  was  evidently  think 
ing  of  something  else.  "  I  suppose  you've  kind  o'  cal- 
c'lated  on  stayin'  here  three  years  more  ? " 


214  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Well,  yes.  Fact  is,  I  think  I  c'n  buy  the  farm  this 
fall,  if  you'll  give  me  a  reasonable  show." 

«  Um —  m  !     What  do  you  call  a  reasonable  show  ?  " 

"  Well,  say  a  quarter  down  and  three  years'  time." 

Butler  looked  at  the  huge  stacks  of  wheat,  which 
filled  the  yard,  over  which  the  chickens  were  fluttering 
and  crawling,  catching  grasshoppers,  and  out  of  which 
the  crickets  were  singing  innumerably.  He  smiled  in  a 
peculiar  way  as  he  said,  "  Oh,  I  won't  be  hard  on  yeh. 
But  what  did  you  expect  to  pay  Pr  the  place  ? " 

"  Why,  about  what  you  offered  it  for  before,  two 
thousand  five  hundred,  or  possibly  three  thousand  dollars," 
he  added  quickly,  as  he  saw  the  owner  shake  his  head. 

u  This  farm  is  worth  five  thousand  and  five  hundred 
dollars,"  said  Butler,  in  a  careless  and  decided  voice. 

"  What !  "  almost  shrieked  the  astounded  Haskins. 
"  What's  that  ?  Five  thousand  ?  Why,  that's  double 
what  you  offered  it  for  three  years  ago." 

"  Of  course,  and  it's  worth  it.  It  was  all  run  down 
then ;  now  it's  in  good  shape.  You've  laid  out  fifteen 
hundred  dollars  in  improvements,  according  to  your  own 
story." 

"  But  you  had  nothin*  t'  do  about  that.  It's  my  work 
an'  my  money." 

"  You  bet  it  was ;  but  it's  my  land." 

"  But  what's  to  pay  me  for  all  my  —  " 

"  Ain't  you  had  the  use  of  'em  ? "  replied  Butler, 
smiling  calmly  into  his  face. 

Haskins  was  like  a  man  struck  on  the  head  with  a 
sandbag ;  he  couldn't  think ,  he  stammered  as  he  tried 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  215 

to  say  :  "  But  —  I  never'd  git  the  use  —  You'd  rob 
me  !  More  'n  that :  you  agreed  —  you  promised  that  I 
could  buy  or  rent  at  the  end  of  three  years  at  —  " 

"  That's  all  right.  But  I  didn't  say  I'd  let  you  carry 
off  the  improvements,  nor  that  I'd  go  on  renting  the 
farm  at  two-fifty.  The  land  is  doubled  in  value,  it 
don't  matter  how ;  it  don't  enter  into  the  question  j  an' 
now  you  can  pay  me  five  hundred  dollars  a  year  rent,  or 
take  it  on  your  own  terms  at  fifty-five  hundred,  or  —  git 
out." 

He  was  turning  away  when  Haskins,  the  sweat  pour 
ing  from  his  face,  fronted  him,  saying  again : 

u  But  you've  done  nothing  to  make  it  so.  You  hain't 
added  a  cent.  I  put  it  all  there  myself,  expectin'  to  buy. 
I  worked  an'  sweat  to  improve  it.  I  was  workin'  for 
myself  an'  babes  —  " 

u  Well,  why  didn't  you  buy  when  I  offered  to  sell  ? 
What  y'  kickin'  about  ? " 

"  I'm  kickin'  about  payin'  you  twice  Pr  my  own 
things,  —  my  own  fences,  my  own  kitchen,  my  own 
garden." 

Butler  laughed.  a  You're  too  green  t'  eat,  young  feller. 
Tour  improvements !  The  law  will  sing  another  tune." 

"  But  I  trusted  your  word." 

"Never  trust  anybody,  my  friend.  Besides,  I  didn't 
promise  not  to  do  this  thing.  Why,  man,  don't  look  at 
me  like  that.  Don't  take  me  for  a  thief.  It's  the  law,, 
The  reg'lar  thing.  Everybody  does  it." 

"  I  don't  care  if  they  do.  It's  stealin'  jest  the  same. 
You  take  three  thousand  dollars  of  my  money  —  the 


2i  6  Main -Travel led  Roads 

work  o'  my  hands  and  my  wife's."  He  broke  down  at 
this  point.  He  was  not  a  strong  man  mentally.  He 
could  face  hardship,  ceaseless  toil,  but  he  could  not  face 
the  cold  and  sneering  face  of  Butler. 
'•  "But  I  don't  take  it,"  said  Butler,  coolly.  "All 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  go  on  jest  as  you've  been  a-doin', 
or  give  me  a  thousand  dollars  down,  and  a  mortgage  at 
ten  per  cent  on  the  rest. 

Haskins  sat  down  blindly  on  a  bundle  of  oats  near  by, 
and  with  staring  eyes  and  drooping  head  went  over  the 
situation.  He  was  under  the.  lion's  paw.  He  felt  a 
horrible  numbness  in  his  heart  and  limbs.  He  was  hid 
in  a  mist,  and  there  was  no  path  out. 

Butler  walked  about,  looking  at  the  huge  stacks  of 
grain,  and  pulling  now  and  again  a  few  handfuls  out, 
shelling  the  heads  in  his  hands  and  blowing  the  chaff 
away.  He  hummed  a  little  tune  as  he  did  so.  He  had 
an  accommodating  air  of  waiting. 

Haskins  was  in  the  midst  of  the  terrible  toil  of  the 
last  year.  He  was  walking  again  in  the  rain  and  the 
mud  behind  his  plough ;  he  felt  the  dust  and  dirt  of 
the  threshing.  The  ferocious  husking-time,  with  its 
cutting  wind  and  biting,  clinging  snows,  lay  hard  upon 
him.  Then  he  thought  of  his  wife,  how  she  had  cheer 
fully  cooked  and  baked,  without  holiday  and  without 
rest. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? "  inquired  the  cool, 
mocking,  insinuating  voice  of  Butler. 

"  I  think  you're  a  thief  and  a  liar !  "  shouted  Haskins, 
!caping  up.  "A  black-hearted  houn'!"  Butler's  smile 


Under  the  Lion's  Paw  217 

maddened  him ;  with  a  sudden  leap  he  caught  a  fork  in 
his  hands,  and  whirled  it  in  the  air.  "  You'll  never  rob 
another  man,  damn  ye  !  "  he  grated  through  his  teeth,  a 
look  of  pitiless  ferocity  in  his  accusing  eyes. 

Butler  shrank  and  quivered,  expecting  the  blow;  stood, 
held  hypnotized  by  the  eyes  of  the  man  he  had  a 
moment  before  despised  —  a  man  transformed  into  an 
avenging  demon.  But  in  the  deadly  hush  between  the 
lift  of  the  weapon  and  its  fall  there  came  a  gush  of  faint, 
childish  laughter  and  then  across  the  range  of  his  vision, 
far  away  and  dim,  he  saw  the  sun-bright  head  of  his 
baby  girl,  as,  with  the  pretty,  tottering  run  of  a  two- 
year-old,  she  moved  across  the  grass  of  the  dooryard. 
His  hands  relaxed;  the  fork  fell  to  the  ground;  his  head 
lowered. 

u  Make  out  y'r  deed  an*  mortgage,  an*  git  off'n  my 
land,  an'  don't  ye  never  cross  my  line  agin ;  if  y'  do, 
I'll  kill  ye." 

Butler  backed  away  from  the  man  in  wild  haste,  and 
climbing  into  his  buggy  with  trembling  limbs  drove  off 
down  the  road,  leaving  Haskins  seated  dumbly  on  the 
sunny  pile  of  sheaves,  his  head  sunk  into  his  hands. 


THE   CREAMERY   MAN 

"Along  these  woods  in  storm 
and  tun  the  buy  people  go" 


THE  CREAMERY   MAN 

THE  tin-pedler  has  gone  out  of  the  West.  Amiable 
gossip  and  sharp  trader  that  he  was,  his  visits  once 
brought  a  sharp  business  grapple  to  the  farmer's  wife 
and  daughters,  after  which,  as  the  man  of  trade  was 
repacking  his  unsold  wares,  a  moment  of  cheerful  talk 
often  took  place.  It  was  his  cue,  if  he  chanced  to  be  a 
tactful  pedler,  to  drop  all  attempts  at  sale  and  become 
distinctly  human  and  neighborly. 

His  calls  were  not  always  well  received,  but  they 
were  at  their  best  pleasant  breaks  of  a  monotonous 
round  of  duties.  But  he  is  no  longer  a  familiar  spot  on 
the  landscape.  He  has  passed  into  the  limbo  of  the 
things  no  longer  necessary.  His  red  wagon  may  be 
rumbling  and  rattling  through  some  newer  region,  but 
the  u  Coolly  Country  "  knows  him  no  more. 

"  The  creamery  man  "  has  taken  his  place.  Every 
afternoon,  rain  or  shine,  the  wagons  of  the  North  Star 
Creamery  in  "  Dutcher's  Coolly  "  stop  at  the  farmers' 
windmills  to  skim  the  cream  from  the  "  submerged 
cans."  His  wagon  is  not  gay;  it  is  generally  battered 
and  covered  with  mud  and  filled  with  tall  cans;  but 
the  driver  himself  is  generally  young  and  sometimes 
attractive.  The  driver  in  Molasses  Gap,  which  is  a 
small  coolly  leading  into  Dutcher's  Coolly,  was  particu 
larly  good-looking  and  amusing. 

221 


222  Main -Travelled  Roads 

He  was  aware  of  his  good  looks,  and  his  dress  not 
only  showed  that  he  was  single,  but  that  he  hoped  to 
be  married  soon.  He  wore  brown  trousers,  which 
fitted  him  very  well,  and  a  dark  blue  shirt,  which  had  a 
gay  lacing  of  red  cord  in  front,  and  a  pair  of  suspenders 
that  were  a  vivid  green.  On  his  head  he  wore  a 
Chinese  straw  helmet,  which  was  as  ugly  as  anything 
could  conceivably  be,  but  he  was  as  proud  of  it  as  he 
was  of  his  green  suspenders.  In  summer  he  wore  no 
coat  at  all,  and  even  in  pretty  cold  weather  he  left  his 
vest  on  his  wagon-seat,  not  being  able  to  bring  him 
self  to  the  point  of  covering  up  the  red  and  green  of 
his  attire. 

It  was  noticeable  that  the  women  of  the  neighbor 
hood  always  came  out,  even  on  wash-day,  to  see  that 
Claude  (his  name  was  Claude  Williams)  measured  the 
cream  properly.  There  was  much  banter  about  this. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  always  said  she  wouldn't  trust  him 
"  fur's  you  can  fling  a  yearlin'  bull  by  the  tail." 

"  Now  that's  the  difference  between  us,"  he  would 
reply.  "  I'd  trust  you  anywhere.  Anybody  with  such 
a  daughter  as  your'n." 

He  seldom  got  further,  for  Lucindy  always  said  (in 
substance),  "  Oh,  you  go  'long." 

There  need  be  no  mystery  in  the  matter.  'Cindy  was 
the  girl  for  whose  delight  he  wore  the  green  and  red.  He 
made  no  secret  of  his  love,  and  she  made  no  secret  of  her 
scorn.  She  laughed  at  his  green  'spenders  and  the  "  red 
shoestring "  in  his  shirt ;  but  Claude  considered  him 
self  very  learned  in  women's  ways,  by  reason  of  two 


The  Creamery  Man  223 

years'  driving  the  creamery  wagon,  and  he  merely 
winked  at  Mrs.  Kennedy  when  the  girl  was  looking, 
and  kissed  his  hand  at  'Cindy  when  her  mother  was  not 
looking. 

He  looked  forward  every  afternoon  to  these  little  ex 
changes  of  wit,  and  was  depressed  when  for  any  reason 
the  women  folks  were  away.  There  were  other  places 
pleasanter  than  the  Kennedy  farm  —  some  of  "the 
Dutchmen"  had  fine  big  brick  houses  and  finer  and 
bigger  barns,  but  their  women  were  mostly  homely,  and 
went  around  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  with  ugly  blue 
dresses  hanging  frayed  and  greasy  round  their  lank  ribs 
and  big  joints. 

"  Someway  their  big  houses  have  a  look  like  a  stable 
when  you  get  close  to  'em,"  Claude  said  to  'Cindy  once. 
"  Their  women  work  so  much  in  the  field  they  don't 
haye  any  time  to  fix  up  —  the  way  you  do.  I  don't 
believe  in  women  workin'  in  the  fields."  He  said  this 
looking  'Cindy  in  the  face.  "  My  wife  needn't  set  her 
foot  outdoors  'less  she's  a  mind  to." 

"  Oh,  you  can  talk,"  replied  the  girl,  scornfully,  "  but 
you'd  be  like  the  rest  of  'em."  But  she  was  glad  that 
she  had  on  a  clean  collar  and  apron  —  if  it  was  ironing- 
day. 

What  Claude  would  have  said  further  'Cindy  could 
not  divine,  for  her  mother  called  her  away,  as  she 
generally  did  when  she  saw  her  daughter  lingering  too 
long  with  the  creamery  man.  Claude  was  not  con 
sidered  a  suitable  match  for  Lucindy  Kennedy,  whose 
father  owned  one  of  the  finest  farms  in  the  Coolly. 


224  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Worldly  considerations  hold  in  Molasses  Gap  as  well  as 
in  Bluff  Siding  and  Tyre. 

But  Claude  gave  little  heed  to  these  moods  in  Mrs. 
Kennedy.  If  'Cindy  sputtered,  he  laughed ;  and  if  she 
smiled,  he  rode  on  whistling  till  he  came  to  old  man 
Haldeman's,  who  owned  the  whole  lower  half  of  Molas 
ses  Gap,  and  had  one  unmarried  daughter,  who  thought 
Claude  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the  world.  She 
was  always  at  the  gate  to  greet  him  as  he  drove  up,  and 
forced  sections  of  cake  and  pieces  of  gooseberry  pie  upon 
him  each  day. 

"She's  good  enough  —  for  a  Dutchman,"  Claude  said 
of  her,  "  but  I  hate  to  see  a  woman  go  around  looking 
as  if  her  clothes  would  drop  off  if  it  rained  on  her.  And 
on  Sundays,  when  she  dresses  up,  she  looks  like  a  boy 
/'gged  out  in  some  girl's  cast-off  duds." 

This  was  pretty  hard  on  Nina.  She  was  tall  and 
lank  and  sandy,  with  small  blue  eyes,  her  limbs  were 
heavy,  and  she  did  wear  her  Sunday  clothes  badly,  but 
she  was  a  good,  generous  soul,  and  very  much  in  love 
with  the  creamery  man.  She  was  not  very  clean,  but 
then  she  could  not  help  that ;  the  dust  of  the  field  is  no 
respecter  of  sex.  No,  she  was  not  lovely,  but  she  was 
the  only  daughter  of  old  Ernest  Haldeman,  and  the  old 
man  was  not  very  strong. 

Claude  was  the  daily  bulletin  of  the  Gap.  He  knew 
whose  cow  died  the  night  before,  who  was  at  the  straw 
berry  dance,  and  all  about  Abe  Anderson's  night  in  jail 
up  at  the  Siding.  If  his  coming  was  welcome  to  the 
Kennedy's,  who  took  the  tyuff  Siding  Gimlet  and  the 


The  Creamery  Man  225 

county  paper,  how  much  the  more  cordial  ought  his 
greeting  to  be  at  Haldeman's,  where  they  only  took  the 
Milwaukee  Weekly  Freiheit. 

Nina  in  her  poor  way  had  longings  and  aspirations. 
She  wanted  to  marry  "  a  Yankee,"  and  not  one  of  her 
own  kind.  She  had  a  little  schooling  obtained  at  the  small 
brick  shed  under  the  towering  cottonwood  tree  at  the 
corner  of  her  father's  farm  ;  but  her  life  had  been  one  of 
hard  work  and  mighty  little  play.  Her  parents  spoke  in 
German  about  the  farm,  and  could  speak  English  only 
very  brokenly.  Her  only  brother  had  adventured  into 
the  foreign  parts  of  Pine  County,  and  had  been  killed  in 
a  sawmill.  Her  life  was  lonely  and  hard. 

She  had  suitors  among  the  Germans,  plenty  of  them, 
but  she  had  a  disgust  of  them  —  considered  as  possible 
husbands  —  and  though  she  went  to  their  beery  dances 
occasionally,  she  had  always  in  her  mind  the  ease,  light 
ness,  and  color  of  Claude.  She  knew  that  the  Yankee 
girls  did  not  work  in  the  fields,  —  even  the  Norwegian 
girls  seldom  did  so  now,  they  worked  out  in  town,  —  but 
she  had  been  brought  up  to  hoe  and  pull  weeds  from  her 
childhood,  and  her  father  and  mother  considered  it  good 
for  her,  and  being  a  gentle  and  obedient  child,  she  still 
continued  to  do  as  she  was  told.  Claude  pitied  the  girl, 
and  used  to  talk  with  her,  during  his  short  stay,  in  his 
cheeriest  manner. 

"  Hello,  Nina !  How  you  vass,  ain't  it  ?  How  much 
cream  already  you  got  this  morning  ?  Did  you  hear  the 
news,  not  ?  " 

"  No,  vot  hass  happened  ?  " 
Q 


2l6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

u  Everything.  Frank  McVey's  horse  stepped  througn 
the  bridge  and  broke  his  leg,  and  he's  going  to  sue  the 
county  —  mean  Frank  is,  not  the  horse." 

"  Iss  dot  so  ?  " 

"Sure!  and  Bill  Hetner  had  a  fight,  and  Julia  Door- 
flinger's  got  home." 

"  Vot  wass  Bill  fightding  apoudt  ?  " 

"Oh,  drunk  —  fighting  for  exercise.  Hain't  got  a 
fresh  pie  cut  ?  " 

Her  face  lighted  up,  and  she  turned  so  suddenly  to  go 
that  her  bare  leg  showed  below  her  dress.  Her  unstock- 
inged  feet  were  thrust  into  coarse  working  shoes.  Claude 
wrinkled  his  nose  in  disgust,  but  he  took  the  piece  of 
green  currant  pie  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  bit  the 
acute  angle  from  it. 

"  First  rate.  You  do  make  lickin'  good  pies,"  he  said, 
out  of  pure  kindness  of  heart ;  and  Nina  was  radiant. 

"  She  wouldn't  be  so  bad-lookin'  if  they  didn't  work 
her  in  the  fields  like  a  horse,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
drove  away. 

The  neighbors  were  well  aware  of  Nina's  devotion, 
and  Mrs.  Smith,  who  lived  two  or  three  houses  down 
the  road,  said,  "  Good-evening,  Claude.  Seen  Nina  to 
day  ?  " 

"  Sure  !  and  she  gave  me  a  piece  of  currant  pie  —  her 
own  make." 

"  Did  you  eat  it  ? " 

"  Did  I  ?  I  guess  yes.  I  ain't  refusin'  pie  from 
Nina  —  not  while  her  pa  has  five  hundred  acres  of  the 
best  land  in  Molasses  Gap." 


The  Creamery  Man  227 

Now,  it  was  this  innocent  joking  on  his  part  that 
started  all  Claude's  trouble.  Mrs.  Smith  called  a  couple 
of  days  later,  and  had  her  joke  with  'Cindy. 

"  'Cindy,  your  cake's  all  dough." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  " 

"  Claude  come  along  t'other  day  grinnin'  from  ear  to 
ear,  and  some  currant  pie  in  his  musstache.  He  had 
jest  fixed  it  up  with  Nina.  He  jest  as  much  as  said  he 
was  after  the  old  man's  acres." 

"  Well,  let  him  have  'em.  I  don't  know  as  it  inter 
ests  me,"  replied  'Cindy,  waving  her  head  like  a  banner. 
"  If  he  wants  to  sell  himself  to  that  greasy  Dutchwoman 
—  why,  let  him,  that's  all !  I  don't  care." 

Her  heated  manner  betrayed  her  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who 
laughed  with  huge  enjoyment. 

"  Well,  you  better  watch  out !  " 

The  next  day  was  very  warm,  and  when  Claude  drove 
up  under  the  shade  of  the  big  maples  he  was  ready  for  a 
chat  while  his  horses  rested,  but  'Cindy  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  Mrs.  Kennedy  came  out  to  get  the  amount  of  the 
skimming,  and  started  to  reenter  the  house  without  talk. 

"  Where's  the  young  folks  ?  "  asked  Claude,  carelessly. 

"  If  you  mean  Lucindy,  she's  in  the  house." 

"  Ain't  sick  or  nothin',  is  she  ?  " 

"  Not  that  anybody  knows  of.  Don't  expect  her  to 
be  here  to  gass  with  you  every  time,  do  ye  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  mind,"  replied  Claude.  He  was 
too  keen  not  to  see  his  chance.  "  In  fact,  I'd  like  to 
have  her  with  me  all  the  time,  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  he  said, 
with  engaging  frankness. 


228  Main -Travelled  Roads 

u  Well,  you  can't  have  her,"  the  mother  replied  un 
graciously. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  like  you  well  enough,  but  'Cindy'd  be  a  big 
fool  to  marry  a  man  without  a  roof  to  cover  his  head." 

"  That's  where  you  take  your  inning,  sure,"  Claude 
replied.  "  I'm  not  much  better  than  a  hired  hand. 
Well,  now,  see  here,  I'm  going  to  make  a  strike  one  of 
these  days,  and  then  —  look  out  for  me  !  You  don't 
know  but  what  I've  invested  in  a  gold  mine.  I  may  be 
a  Dutch  lord  in  disguise.  Better  not  be  brash." 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  sourness  could  not  stand  against  such 
sweetness  and  drollery.  She  smiled  in  wry  fashion. 
"You'd  better  be  moving,  or  you'll  be  late." 

"  Sure  enough.  If  I  only  had  you  for  a  mother-in-law 
• —  that's  why  I'm  so  poor.  Nobody  to  keep  me  moving. 
If  I  had  some  one  to  do  the  talking  for  me,  I'd  work." 
He  grinned  broadly  and  drove  out. 

His  irritation  led  him  to  say  some  things  to  Nina  which 
he  would  not  have  thought  of  saying  the  day  before.  She 
had  been  working  in  the  field,  and  had  dropped  her  hoe 
to  see  him. 

"  Say,  Nina,  I  wouldn't  work  outdoors  such  a  day  as 
this  if  I  was  you.  I'd  tell  the  old  man  to  go  to  thunder, 
and  I'd  go  in  and  wash  up  and  look  decent.  Yankee 
women  don't  do  that  kind  of  work,  and  your  old  dad's 
rich ;  no  use  of  your  sweatin'  around  a  corn-field  with  a 
hoe  in  your  hands.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  woman  goin' 
round  without  stockin's,  and  her  hands  all  chapped  and 
calloused.  It  ain't  accordin'  to  Hoyle.  No,  sir !  I 


The  Creamery  Man  229 

wouldn't  stand  it.  I'd  serve  an  injunction  on  the  old 
man  right  now." 

A  dull,  slow  flush  crept  into  the  girl's  face  and  she 
put  one  hand  over  the  other  as  they  rested  on  the  fence. 
One  looked  so  much  less  monstrous  than  two. 

Claude  went  on,  "  Yes,  sir !  I'd  brace  up  and  go  to 
Yankee  meeting  instead  of  Dutch ;  you'd  pick  up  a  Yan 
kee  beau  like  as  not." 

He  gathered  his  cream  while  she  stood  silently  by,  and 
when  he  looked  at  her  again  she  was  in  deep  thought. 

"  Good-day,"  he  said  cheerily. 

"  Good-by,"  she  replied,  and  her  face  flushed  again. 

It  rained  that  night  and  the  roads  were  very  bad,  and 
he  was  late  the  next  time  he  arrived  at  Haldeman's. 
Nina  came  out  in  her  best  dress,  but  he  said  nothing 
about  it,  supposing  she  was  going  to  town  or  something 
like  that,  and  he  hurried  through  with  his  task  and  had 
mounted  his  seat  before  he  realized  that  anything  was 
wrong. 

Then  Mrs.  Haldeman  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door 
and  hurled  a  lot  of  unintelligible  German  at  him.  He 
knew  she  was  mad,  and  mad  at  him,  and  also  at  Nina, 
for  she  shook  her  fist  at  them  alternately. 

Singular  to  tell,  Nina  paid  no  attention  to  her  mother's 
sputter.  She  looked  at  Claude  with  a  certain  timid  au 
dacity. 

"  How  you  like  me  to-day  ? " 

"  That's  better,"  he  said,  as  he  eyed  her  critically. 
"  Now  you're  talkin' !  I'd  do  a  little  reading  of  the  news 
paper  myself,  if  I  was  you.  A  woman's  business  ain't 


230  Main -Travelled  Roads 

to  work  out  in  the  hot  sun  —  it's  to  cook  and  fix  up 
things  round  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her  clean  dress 
and  set  in  the  shade  and  read  or  sew  on  something. 
Stand  up  to  'em  !  doggone  me  if  I'd  paddle  round  that  hot 
corn-field  with  a  mess  o'  Dutchmen  —  it  ain't  decent!  " 

He  drove  off  with  a  chuckle  at  the  old  man,  who  was 
seated  at  the  back  of  the  house  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand.  He  was  lame,  or  pretended  he  was,  and  made  his 
wife  and  daughter  wait  upon  him.  Claude  had  no  con 
ception  of  what  was  working  in  Nina's  mind,  but  he 
could  not  help  observing  the  changes  for  the  better  in 
her  appearance.  Each  day  he  called  she  was  neatly 
dressed,  and  wore  her  shoes  laced  up  to  the  very  top 
hook. 

She  was  passing  through  tribulation  on  his  account,  but 
she  said  nothing  about  it.  The  old  man,  her  father,  no 
longer  spoke  to  her,  and  the  mother  sputtered  continu 
ally,  but  the  girl  seemed  sustained  by  some  inner  power. 
She  calmly  went  about  doing  as  she  pleased,  and  no  fury 
of  words  could  check  her  or  turn  her  aside. 

Her  hands  grew  smooth  and  supple  once  more,  and 
her  face  lost  the  parboiled  look  it  once  had. 

Claude  noticed  all  these  gains,  and  commented  on 
them  with  the  freedom  of  a  man  who  had  established 
friendly  relations  with  a  child. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Nina,  you're  coming  along,  sure. 
Next  ground  hop  you'll  be  weartn'  silk  stockin's  and 
high-heeled  shoes.  How's  the  old  man  ?  Still  mad  ?  " 

"  He  don't  speak  to  me  no  more.  My  mudder  says 
I  am  a  big  fool." 


The  Creamery  Man  231 

"She  does?  Well,  you  tell  her  I  think  you're  just 
getting  sensible." 

She  smiled  again,  and  there  was  a  subtle  quality  in 
the  mixture  of  boldness  and  timidity  of  her  manner. 
His  praise  was  so  sweet  and  stimulating. 

u  I  sold  my  pigs,"  she  said.  "  The  old  man,  he  wass 
madt,  but  I  didn't  mind.  I  pought  me  a  new  dress 
with  the  money." 

"  That's  right !  I  like  to  see  a  woman  have  plenty  of 
new  dresses,"  Claude  replied.  He  was  really  enjoying 
the  girl's  rebellion  and  growing  womanliness. 

Meanwhile  his  own  affairs  with  Lucindy  were  in  a 
bad  way.  He  seldom  saw  her  now.  Mrs.  Smith  was 
careful  to  convey  to  her  that  Claude  stopped  longer 
than  was  necessary  at  Haldeman's,  and  so  Mrs.  Ken 
nedy  attended  to  the  matter  of  recording  the  cream. 
Kennedy  himself  was  always  in  the  field,  and  Claude 
had  no  opportunity  for  a  conversation  with  him,  as 
he  very  much  wished  to  have.  Once,  when  he  saw 
'Cindy  in  the  kitchen  at  work,  he  left  his  team  to  rest 
in  the  shade  and  sauntered  to  the  door  and  looked 
in. 

She  was  kneading  out  cake  dough,  and  she  looked  the 
loveliest  thing  he  had  ever  seen.  Her  sleeves  were 
rolled  up.  Her  neat  brown  dress  was  covered  with  a 
big  apron,  and  her  collar  was  open  a  little  at  the  throat, 
for  it  was  warm  in  the  kitchen.  She  frowned  when  she 
saw  him. 

He  began  jocularly.  "  Oh,  thank  you,  I  can  wait 
till  it  bakes.  No  trouble  at  all." 


232  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  me  to  have  you 
standin'  there  gappin'  at  me  !  " 

"  Ain't  gappin'  at  you.     I'm  waitin'  for  the  pie." 

"  'Tain't  pie ;  it's  cake.'* 

"  Oh,  well,  cake'll  do  for  a  change.     Say,  'Cindy  —  " 

"  Don't  call  me  'Cindy  !  " 

u  Well,  Lucindy.  It's  mighty  lonesome  when  I  don't 
see  you  on  my  trips." 

u  Oh,  I  guess  you  can  stand  it  with  Nina  to  talk  to." 

"  Aha  !  jealous,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Jealous  of  that  Dutchwoman  !  I  don't  care  who 
you  talk  to,  and  you  needn't  think  it." 

Claude  was  learned  in  woman's  ways,  and  this  pleased 
him  mightily. 

"  Well,  when  shall  I  speak  to  your  daddy  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  and  I  don't  care." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  I'm  going  to  come  up  here 
next  Sunday  in  my  best  bib  and  tucker,  and  I'm  going 
to  say,  '  Mr.  Kennedy  '  —  " 

The  sound  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's  voice  and  footsteps 
approaching  made  Claude  suddenly  remember  his  duties. 

"  See  ye  later,"  he  said,  with  a  grin.  "  I'll  call  for 
the  cake  next  time." 

"  Call  till  you  split  your  throat,  if  you  want  to,"  said 
'Cindy. 

Apparently  this  could  have  gone  on  indefinitely,  but 
it  didn't.  Lucindy  went  to  Minneapolis  for  a  few 
weeks  to  stay  with  her  brother,  and  that  threw  Claude 
deeper  into  despair  than  anything  Mrs.  Kennedy  might 
do  or  any  word  Lucindy  might  say.  It  was  a  dreadful 


The  Creamery  Man  233 

blow  to  him  to  have  her  pack  up  and  go  so  suddenly, 
and  without  one  backward  look  at  him,  and,  besides, 
he  had  planned  taking  her  to  Tyre  on  the  Fourth  of 
July. 

Mr.  Kennedy,  much  better-natured  than  the  mother, 
told  Claude  where  she  had  gone. 

"  By  mighty  !  That's  a  knock  on  the  nose  for  me. 
When  did  she  go  ?  " 

"  Yistady.     I  took  her  down  to  the  Siding." 

u  When's  she  coming  back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  after  the  hot  weather  is  over ;  four  or  five 
weeks." 

"  I  hope  I'll  be  alive  when  she  returns,"  said  Claude, 
gloomily. 

Naturally  he  had  a  little  more  time  to  give  to  Nina 
and  her  remarkable  doings,  which  had  set  the  whole 
neighborhood  to  wondering  "  what  had  come  over  the 
girl." 

She  no  longer  worked  in  the  field.  She  dressed  better, 
and  had  taken  to  going  to  the  most  fashionable  church 
in  town.  She  was  as  a  woman  transformed.  Nothing 
was  able  to  prevent  her  steady  progression  and  bloom. 
She  grew  plumper  and  fairer,  and  became  so  much  more 
attractive  that  the  young  Germans  thickened  round  her, 
and  one  01  two  Yankee  boys  looked  her  way.  Through 
it  all  Claude  kept  up  his  half-humorous  banter  and  alto 
gether  serious  daily  advice,  without  once  realizing  that  any 
thing  sentimental  connected  him  with  it  all.  He  knew 
she  liked  him,  and  sometimes  he  felt  a  little  annoyed  by 
her  attempts  to  please  him,  but  that  she  was  doing  all 


234  Main -Travelled  Roads 

that  she  did  and  ordering  her  whole  life  to  please  him 
never  entered  his  self-sufficient  head. 

There  wasn't  much  room  left  in  that  head  for  any  one 
else  except  Lucindy,  and  his  plans  for  winning  her. 
Plan  as  he  might,  he  saw  no  way  of  making  more  than  the 
two  dollars  a  day  he  was  earning  as  a  cream  collector. 

Things  ran  along  thus  from  week  to  week  till  it  was 
nearly  time  for  Lucindy  to  return.  Claude  was  having 
his  top  buggy  repainted,  and  was  preparing  for  a  vigor 
ous  campaign  when  Lucindy  should  be  at  home  again. 
He  owned  his  team  and  wagon  and  the  buggy  —  nothing 
more. 

One  Saturday  Mr.  Kennedy  said,  "  Lucindy's  coming 
home.  I'm  going  down  after  her  to-night." 

"  Let  me  bring  her  up,"  said  Claude,  with  suspicious 
eagerness. 

Mr.  Kennedy  hesitated.  "  No,  I  guess  I'll  go  myself. 
I  want  to  go  to  town,  anyway." 

Claude  was  in  high  spirits  as  he  drove  into  Haldeman's 
yard  that  afternoon. 

Nina  was  leaning  over  the  fence  singing  softly  to  her 
self,  but  a  fierce  altercation  was  going  on  inside  the 
house.  The  walls  resounded.  It  was  all  Dutch  to 
Claude,  but  he  knew  the  old  people  were  quarrelling. 

Nina  smiled  and  colored  as  Claude  drew  up  at  the 
side  gate.  She  seemed  not  to  hear  the  eloquent  discus 
sion  inside. 

«  What's  going  on  ?  "  asked  Claude. 

"  Dey  tink  I  am  in  house." 

«  How's  that  ?  " 


The  Creamery   Man  235 

"  My  mudder  she  lock  me  up." 

Claude  stared.     "Locked  you  up?     What  for?" 

"  She  tondt  like  it  dot  I  come  out  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  she  don't  ?  "  said  Claude.  "  What's  the  matter 
o'  me  ?  I  ain't  a  dangerous  chap.  I  ain't  eatin'  up 
little  girls." 

Nina  went  on  placidly.  "  She  saidt  dot  you  was  goin' 
to  marry  me  undt  get  the  farm." 

Claude  grinned,  then  chuckled,  and  at  last  roared  and 
whooped  with  the  delight  of  it.  He  took  off  his  hat  and 
said  : 

"  She  said  that,  did  she  ?  Why,  bless  her  old  cab 
bage  head  —  " 

The  opening  of  the  door  and  the  sudden  irruption  of 
Frau  Haldeman  interrupted  him.  She  came  rushing 
toward  him  like  a  she  grizzly  bear,  uttering  a  torrent  of 
German  expletives,  and  hurled  herself  upon  him,  clutch^ 
ing  at  his  hair  and  throat.  He  leaped  aside  and  struck 
down  her  hands  with  a  sweep  of  his  hard  right  arm.  As 
she  turned  to  come  again  he  shouted, 

"  Keep  off!  or  I'll  knock  you  down  !  " 

But  before  the  blow  came  Nina  seized  the  infuriated 
woman  from  behind  and  threw  her  down,  and  held  her 
till  the  old  man  came  hobbling  to  the  rescue.  He 
seemed  a  little  dazed  by  it  all,  and  made  no  effort  to 
assault  Claude. 

The  old  woman,  who  was  already  black  in  the  face 
with  rage,  suddenly  fell  limp,  and  Nina,  kneeling  beside 
her,  grew  white  with  fear. 

«  Oh,  vat  is  the  matter  !     I  haf  kildt  her  I " 


2j 6  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Claude  rushed  for  a  bucket  of  water,  and  dashed  it  in 
the  old  woman's  face.  He  flooded  her  with  slashings  of 

o 

it,  especially  after  he  saw  her  open  her  eyes,  ending 
by  emptying  the  bucket  in  her  face.  He  was  a  little 
malicious  about  that. 

The  mother  sat  up  soon,  wet,  scared,  bewildered, 
gasping. 

"  Mein  Gott  !     Mein  Gott !     Ich  bin  ertrinken  !  " 

"  What  does  she  say  —  she's  been  drinkin'  ?  Well, 
that  looks  reasonable." 

"No,  no  —  she  thinks  she  is  trouned." 

"  Oh,  drowned  !  "  Claude  roared  again.  "  Not  much 
she  ain't.  She's  only  just  getting  cooled  off." 

He  helped  the  girl  get  her  mother  to  the  house  and 
stretch  her  out  on  a  bed.  The  old  woman  seemed  to 
have  completely  exhausted  herself  with  her  effort,  and 
submitted  like  a  child  to  be  waited  upon.  Her  sudden 
fainting  had  subdued  her. 

Claude  had  never  penetrated  so  far  into  the  house 
before,  and  was  much  pleased  with  the  neatness  and  good 
order  of  the  rooms,  though  they  were  bare  of  furniture 
and  carpets. 

As  the  girl  came  out  with  him  to  the  gate  he  uttered 
the  most  serious  word  he  had  ever  had  with  her. 

"  Now,  I  want  you  to  notice,"  he  said,  "  that  I  did 
nothing  to  call  out  the  old  lady's  rush  at  me.  I'd  'a'  hit 
her,  sure,  if  she'd  'a'  clinched  me  again.  I  don't  believe 
in  striking  a  woman,  but  she  was  after  my  hide  for  the 
time  bein',  and  I  can't  stand  two  such  clutches  in  the 
same  place.  You  don't  blame  me,  I  hope." 


The  Creamery  Man  237 

"  No.     You  done  choost  ride." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  the  old  woman  went  for  me 
for?" 

Nina  looked  down  uneasily. 

"  She  know  you  an'  me  lige  one  anudder,  an'  she  is 
afrait  you  marry  me,  an'  den  ven  she  tie  you  get  the 
farm  a-ready." 

Claude  whistled.  "  Great  Jehosaphat !  She  really 
thinks  that,  does  she  r  Well,  dog  my  cats !  What  put 
that  idea  into  her  head  ?  " 

"  I  told  her,"  said  Nina  calmly. 

"  You  told  her  ?  "  Claude  turned  and  stared  at  her. 
She  looked  down,  and  her  face  slowly  grew  to  a  deep 
red.  She  moved  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
like  an  awkward,  embarrassed  child.  As  he  looked  at 
her  standing  like  a  culprit  before  him,  his  first  impulse 
was  to  laugh.  He  was  not  specially  refined,  but  he  was 
a  kindly  man,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the 
girl  was  suffering. 

"  Well,  you  were  mistaken,"  he  said  at  last,  gently 
enough.  "  I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  so,  but  I 
never  thought  of  marrying  you  —  never  thought  of  it." 

The  flush  faded  from  her  face,  and  she  stopped  sway 
ing.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  in  a  tearful,  appealing 
stare. 

"I  t'ought  so  —  you  made  me  t'ink  so." 

"  I  did  ?  How  ?  I  never  said  a  word  to  you  about  — 
liking  you  or — marrying  —  or  anything  like  that.  I  —  " 
He  was  going  to  tell  her  he  intended  to  marry  Lucindv, 
but  he  checked  himself. 


2j  8  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Her  lashes  fell  again,  and  the  tears  began  to  stream 
down  her  cheeks.  She  knew  the  worst  now.  His  face 
had  convinced  her.  She  could  not  tell  him  the  grounds 
of  her  belief — that  every  time  he  had  said,  "I  don't 
like  to  see  a  woman  do  this  or  that,"  or,  "  I  like  to  see 
a  woman  fix  up  around  the  house,"  she  had  considered 
his  words  in  the  light  of  courtship,  believing  that  in  such 
ways  the  Yankees  made  love.  So  she  stood  suffering 
dumbly  while  he  loaded  his  cream-can  and  stood  by  the 
wheel  ready  to  mount  his  wagon. 

He  turned.  u  I'm  mighty  sorry  about  it,"  he  said. 
"  Mebbe  I  was  to  blame.  I  didn't  mean  nothing  by 
it  —  not  a  thing.  It  was  all  a  mistake.  Let's  shake 
hands  over  it,  and  call  the  whole  business  off." 

He  held  his  hand  out  to  her,  and  with  a  low  cry 
she  seized  it  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  it.  He  started 
back  in  amazement,  and  drew  his  hand  away.  She  fell 
upon  her  knees  in  the  path  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  apron,  while  he  hastily  mounted  his  seat  and  drove 
away. 

Nothing  so  profoundly  moving  had  come  into  his  life 
since  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  as  he  rode  on  down 
the  road  he  did  a  great  deal  of  thinking.  First  it  gave 
him  a  pleasant  sensation  to  think  a  woman  should  care 
so  much  for  him.  He  had  lived  a  homeless  life  for 
years,  and  had  come  into  intimate  relations  with  few 
women,  good  or  bad.  They  had  always  laughed  with 
him  (not  at  him,  for  Claude  was  able  to  take  care  of 
himself),  and  no  woman  before  had  taken  him  seriously, 
and  there  was  a  certain  charm  about  the  realization. 


The  Creamery  Man  239 

Then  he  fell  to  wondering  what  he  had  said  or  done 
to  give  the  girl  such  a  notion  of  his  purposes.  Perhaps 
he  had  been  too  free  with  his  talk.  He  was  so  troubled 
that  he  hardly  smiled  once  during  the  rest  of  his  circuit, 
and  at  night  he  refrained  from  going  up  town,  and  sat 
under  the  trees  back  of  the  creamery,  and  smoked  and 
pondered  on  the  astounding  situation. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  resolution  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  declare  himself  to  Lucindy  and  end  all  uncertainty,  so 
that  no  other  woman  would  fall  into  Nina's  error.  He 
was  as  good  as  an  engaged  man,  and  the  world  should 
know  it. 

The  next  day,  with  his  newly  painted  buggy  flashing 
in  the  sun,  and  the  extra  dozen  ivory  rings  he  had  pur 
chased  for  his  harnesses  clashing  together,  he  drove  up 
the  road  as  a  man  of  leisure  and  a  resolved  lover.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day  in  August. 

Lucindy  was  getting  a  light  tea  for  some  friends  up 
from  the  Siding,  when  she  saw  Claude  drive  up. 

"Well,  for  the  land  sake !  "  she  broke  out,  using  one 
of  her  mother's  phrases,  "if  here  isn't  that  creamery 
man ! "  In  that  phrase  lay  the  answer  to  Claude's 
question  —  if  he  had  heard  it.  He  drove  in,  and  Mr. 
Kennedy,  with  impartial  hospitality,  went  out  and  asked 
him  to  'light  and  put  his  team  in  the  barn. 

He  did  so,  feeling  very  much  exhilarated.  He  never 
before  had  gone  courting  in  this  direct  and  aboveboard 
fashion.  He  mistook  the  father's  hospitality  for  com 
pliance  in  his  designs.  He  followed  his  host  into  the 
house,  and  faced,  with  very  fair  composure,  two  girls 


240  Main -Travelled  Roads 

who  smiled  broadly  as  they  shook  hands  with  him.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  gave  him  a  lax  hand  and  a  curt  how-de-do,  and 
Lucindy  fairly  scowled  in  answer  to  his  radiant  smile. 

She  was  much  changed,  he  could  see.  She  wore  a 
dress  with  puffed  sleeves,  and  her  hair  was  dressed  differ 
ently.  She  seemed  strange  and  distant,  but  he  thought 
she  was  "  putting  that  on  "  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
At  the  table  the  three  girls  talked  of  things  at  the 
Siding,  and  ignored  him  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  turn 
to  Farmer  Kennedy  for  refuge.  He  kept  his  courage 
up  by  thinking,  "Wait  till  we  are  alone." 

After  supper,  when  Lucindy  explained  that  the  dishes 
would  have  to  be  washed,  he  offered  to  help  her  in  his 
best  manner. 

"  Thank  you,  I  don't  need  any  help,"  was  Lucindy's 
curt  reply. 

Ordinarily  he  was  a  man  of  much  facility  and  ease  in 
addressing  women,  but  he  was  vastly  disconcerted  by 
her  manner.  He  sat  rather  silently  waiting  for  the  room 
to  clear.  When  the  visitors  intimated  that  they  must 
go,  he  rose  with  cheerful  alacrity. 

"  I'll  get  your  horse  for  you." 

He  helped  hitch  the  horse  into  the  buggy,  and  helped 
the  girls  in  with  a  return  of  easy  gallantry,  and  watched 
them  drive  off  with  joy.  At  last  the  field  was  clear. 

They  returned  to  the  sitting  room,  where  the  old  folks 
remained  for  a  decent  interval,  and  then  left  the  young 
people  alone.  His  courage  returned  then,  and  he  turned 
toward  her  with  resolution  in  his  voice  and  eyes. 

w  Lucindy,"  he  began. 


The  Creamery  Man  241 

"  Miss  Kennedy,  please,"  interrupted  Lucindy,  with 
cutting  emphasis. 

"  I'll  be  darned  if  I  do,"  he  replied  hotly.  "  What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  Since  going  to  Minneapolis  you 
put  on  a  lot  of  city  airs,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  If  you  don't  like  my  airs,  you  know  what  you  can 
do ! " 

He  saw  his  mistake. 

"  Now  see  here,  Lucindy,  there's  no  sense  in  our 
quarrelling." 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel ;  I  don't  want  anything  to 
do  with  you.  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  you." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mean  that !  after  all  the  good  talks 
we've  had." 

She  flushed  red.  "  I  never  had  any  such  talks  with  you." 

He  pursued  his  advantage. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did,  and  you  took  pains  that  I  should 
see  you." 

"  I  didn't ;  no  such  thing.  You  came  poking  into 
the  kitchen  where  you'd  no  business  to  be." 

"Say,  now,  stop  fooling.     You  like  me  and  —  " 

"  I  don't.  I  bate  you,  and  if  you  don't  clear  out  I'll 
call  father.  You're  one  o'  these  kind  o'  men  that  think 
if  a  girl  looks  at  'em  that  they  want  to  marry  'em.  I 
tell  you  I  don't  want  anything  more  to  do  with  you, 
and  I'm  engaged  to  another  man,  and  I  wish  you'd 
attend  to  your  own  business.  So  there !  I  hope  you're 
satisfied." 

Claude  sat  for  nearly  a  minute  in  silence,  then  he  rose. 
u  I  guess  you're  right.  I've  made  a  mistake.  I've  made 

a 


242  Main -Travelled  Roads 

a  mistake  in  the  girl."  He  spoke  with  a  curious  hard 
ness  in  his  voice.  u  Good-evening,  Miss  Kennedy." 

He  went  out  with  dignity  and  in  good  order.  His 
retreat  was  not  ludicrous.  He  left  the  girl  with  the 
feeling  that  she  had  lost  her  temper,  and  with  the 
knowledge  that  she  had  uttered  a  lie. 

He  put  his  horses  to  the  buggy  with  a  mournful  self- 
pitv  as  he  saw  the  wheels  glisten.  He  had  done  all 
this  for  a  scornful  girl  who  could  not  treat  him  decently. 
As  he  drove  slowly  down  the  road  he  mused  deeply.  It 
was  a  knock-down  blow,  surely.  He  was  a  just  man, 
so  far  as  he  knew,  and  as  he  studied  the  situation  over 
he  could  not  blame  the  girl.  In  the  light  of  her  con 
vincing  wrath  he  comprehended  that  the  sharp  things 
she  had  said  to  him  in  the  past  were  not  make-believe  — 
not  love-taps,  but  real  blows.  She  had  not  been  co 
quetting  with  him;  she  had  tried  to  keep  him  away. 
She  considered  herself  too  good  for  a  hired  man.  Well, 
maybe  she  was.  Anyhow,  she  had  gone  out  of  his  reach, 
hopelessly. 

As  he  came  past  the  Haldemans'  he  saw  Nina  sitting 
out  under  the  trees  in  the  twilight.  On  the  impulse  he 
pulled  in.  His  mind  took  another  turn.  Here  was  a 
woman  who  was  open  and  aboveboard  in  her  affection. 
Her  words  meant  what  they  stood  for.  He  remem 
bered  how  she  had  bloomed  out  the  last  few  months. 
She  has  the  making  of  a  handsome  woman  in  her,  he 
thought. 

She  saw  him  and  came  out  to  the  gate,  and  while  he 
leaned  out  of  his  carriage  she  rested  her  arms  on  the  gate 


The  Creamery  Man  243 

and  looked  up  at  him.  She  looked  pale  and  sad,  and  he 
was  touched. 

"  How's  the  old  lady  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  she's  up  !  She  is  much  change-ed.  She  is  veak 
and  quiet." 

«  Quiet,  is  she  ?     Well,  that's  good." 

"  She  t'inks  God  strike  her  fer  her  vickedness.  Never 
before  did  she  fainted  like  dot." 

"  Well,  don't  spoil  that  notion  in  her.  It  may  do  her 
a  world  of  good." 

"  Der  priest  come.  He  saidt  it  wass  a  punishment. 
She  saidt  I  should  marry  who  I  like." 

Claude  looked  at  her  searchingly.  She  was  certainly 
much  improved.  All  she  needed  was  a  little  encour 
agement  and  advice  and  she  would  make  a  handsome 
wife.  If  the  old  lady  had  softened  down,  her  son-in-law 
could  safely  throw  up  the  creamery  job  and  become  the 
boss  of  the  farm.  The  old  man  was  used  up,  and  the 
farm  needed  some  one  right  away. 

He  straightened  up  suddenly.  "  Get  your  hat,"  he 
said,  "  and  we'll  take  a  ride." 

She  started  erect,  and  he  could  see  her  pale  face  glow 
with  joy. 

"With  you?" 

"  With  me.  Get  your  best  hat.  We  may  turn  up 
at  the  minister's  and  get  married  —  if  a  Sunday  marriage 
is  legal." 

As  she  hurried  up  the  walk  he  said  to  himself, 

u  I'll  bet  it  gives  Lucindy  a  shock  !  " 

And  the  thought  pleased  him  mightily. 


A  DATS  PLEASURE 

"Mainly  it  is  long  and  wearjful,  and  has  a 
borne  of  toil  at  one  end  and  a  dull  little  town 
at  the  other9* 


A   DAY'S  PLEASURE 

WHEN  Markham  came  in  from  shovelling  his  last 
wagon-load  of  corn  into  the  crib  he  found  that  his  wife 
had  put  the  children  to  bed,  and  was  kneading  a  batch  of 
dough  with  the  dogged  action  of  a  tired  and  sullen  woman. 

He  slipped  his  soggy  boots  off  his  feet,  and  having 
laid  a  piece  of  wood  on  top  of  the  stove,  put  his  heels 
on  it  comfortably.  His  chair  squeaked  as  he  leaned 
back  on  its  hinder  legs,  but  he  paid  no  attention ;  he 
was  used  to  it,  exactly  as  he  was  used  to  his  wife's  lame 
ness  and  ceaseless  toil. 

"  That  closes  up  my  corn,"  he  said  after«a  silence.  "  I 
guess  Fll  go  to  town  to-morrow  to  git  my  horses  shod." 

"  I  guess  I'll  git  ready  and  go  along,"  said  his  wife,  in 
a  sorry  attempt  to  be  firm  and  confident  of  tone. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  go  to  town  fer  ?  "  he  grumbled. 

u  What  does  anybody  want  to  go  to  town  fer  ?  "  she 
burst  out,  facing  him.  "  I  ain't  been  out  o'  this  house  fer 
six  months,  while  you  go  an'  go ! " 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  six  months.  You  went  down  that  day 
I  got  the  mower." 

"  When  was  that  ?  The  tenth  of  July,  and  you  know 
it." 

"  Well,  mebbe  'twas.  I  didn't  think  it  was  so  long 
ago.  I  ain't  no  objection  to  your  goin',  only  I'm  goin' 
to  take  a  load  of  wheat." 

247 


248  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"Well,  jest  leave  off  a  sack,  an*  that'll  balance  me 
an'  the  baby,"  she  said  spiritedly. 

u  All  right,"  he  replied  good-naturedly,  seeing  she  was 
roused.  "  Only  that  wheat  ought  to  be  put  up  to-night 
if  you're  goin '.  You  won't  have  any  time  to  hold  sacks 
for  me  in  the  morning  with  them  young  ones  to  get  off 
to  school." 

"  Well,  let's  go  do  it  then,"  she  said,  sullenly  resolute. 

"  I  hate  to  go  out  agin ;  but  I  s'pose  we'd  better." 

He  yawned  dismally  and  began  pulling  his  boots  on 
again,  stamping  his  swollen  feet  into  them  with  grunts 
of  pain.  She  put  on  his  coat  and  one  of  the  boy's  caps, 
and  they  went  out  to  the  granary.  The  night  was  cold 
and  clear. 

u  Don't  look  so  much  like  snow  as  it  did  last  night," 
said  Sam.  "  It  may  turn  warm." 

Laying  out  the  sacks  in  the  light  of  the  lantern,  they 
sorted  out  those  which  were  whole,  and  Sam  climbed 
into  the  bin  with  a  tin  pail  in  his  hand,  and  the  work 
began. 

He  was  a  sturdy  fellow,  and  he  worked  desperately 
fast ;  the  shining  tin  pail  dived  deep  into  the  cold  wheat 
and  dragged  heavily  on  the  woman's  tired  hands  as  it 
came  to  the  mouth  of  the  sack,  and  she  trembled 
with  fatigue,  but  held  on  and  dragged  the  sacks  away 
when  rilled,  and  brought  others,  till  at  last  Sam  climbed 
out,  puffing  and  wheezing,  to  tie  them  up. 

"  I  guess  I'll  load  'em  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 
"  You  needn't  wait  fer  me.  I'll  tie  'em  up  alone." 

"Oh,  I    don't    mind,"   she   replied,   feeling   a   little 


A  Day's  Pleasure  249 

touched  by  his  unexpectedly  easy  acquiescence  to  her 
request.  When  they  went  back  to  the  house  the  moon 
had  risen. 

It  had  scarcely  set  when  they  were  wakened  by  the 
crowing  roosters.  The  man  rolled  stiffly  out  of  bed  and 
began  rattling  at  the  stove  in  the  dark,  cold  kitchen. 

His  wife  arose  lamer  and  stiffer  than  usual,  and  began 
twisting  her  thin  hair  into  a  knot. 

Sam  did  not  stop  to  wash,  but  went  out  to  the  barn. 
The  woman,  however,  hastily  soused  her  face  into  the 
hard  limestone  water  at  the  sink,  and  put  the  kettle  on. 
Then  she  called  the  children.  She  knew  it  was  early, 
and  they  would  need  several  callings.  She  pushed 
breakfast  forward,  running  over  in  her  mind  the  things 
she  must  have  :  two  spools  of  thread,  six  yards  of  cotton 
flannel,  a  can  of  coffee,  and  mittens  for  Kitty.  These 
she  must  have  —  there  were  oceans  of  things  she  needed. 

The  children  soon  came  scudding  down  out  of  the 
darkness  of  the  upstairs  to  dress  tumultuously  at  the 
kitchen  stove.  They  humped  and  shivered,  holding  up 
their  bare  feet  from  the  cold  floor,  like  chickens  in  new 
fallen  snow.  They  were  irritable,  and  snarled  and 
snapped  and  struck  like  cats  and  dogs.  Mrs.  Markham 
stood  it  for  a  while  with  mere  commands  to  "  hush  up," 
but  at  last  her  patience  gave  out,  and  she  charged  down 
on  the  struggling  mob  and  cuffed  them  right  and  left. 

They  ate  their  breakfast  by  lamplight,  and  when  Sam 
went  back  to  his  work  around  the  barnyard  it  was 
scarcely  dawn.  The  children,  left  alone  with  their 
mother,  began  to  tease  her  to  let  them  go  to  town  also. 


250  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  No,  sir  —  nobody  goes  but  baby.  Your  father's 
goin*  to  take  a  load  of  wheat." 

She  was  weak  with  the  worry  of  it  all  when  she 
had  sent  the  older  children  away  to  school  and  the 
kitchen  work  was  finished.  She  went  into  the  cold  bed 
room  off  the  little  sitting  room  and  put  on  her  best  dress. 
It  had  never  been  a  good  fit,  and  now  she  was  getting 
so  thin  it  hung  in  wrinkled  folds  everywhere  about  the 
shoulders  and  waist.  She  lay  down  on  the  bed  a 
moment  to  ease  that  dull  pain  in  her  back.  She  had  a 
moment's  distaste  for  going  out  at  all.  The  thought  of 
sleep  was  more  alluring.  Then  the  thought  of  the 
long,  long  day,  and  the  sickening  sameness  of  her  life, 
swept  over  her  again,  and  she  rose  and  prepared  the 
baby  for  the  journey. 

It  was  but  little  after  sunns-e  when  Sam  drove  out 
into  the  road  and  started  for  Belleplain.  His  wife  sat 
perched  upon  the  wheat-sacks  behind  him,  holding  the 
baby  in  her  lap,  a  cotton  quilt  under  her,  and  a  cotton 
horse-blanket  over  her  knees. 

Sam  was  disposed  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  he 
talked  back  at  her  occasionally,  though  she  could  only 
understand  him  when  he  turned  his  face  toward  her. 
The  baby  stared  out  at  the  passing  fence-posts,  and 
wiggled  his  hands  out  of  his  mittens  at  every  opportunity. 
He  was  merry  at  least. 

It  grew  warmer  as  they  went  on,  and  a  strong  south 
wind  arose.  The  dust  settled  upon  the  woman's  shawl 
and  hat.  Her  hair  loosened  and  blew  unkemptly  about 
her  face,  The  road  which  led  across  the  high,  level 


A  Day's  Pleasure  251 

prairie  was  quite  smooth  and  dry,  but  still  it  jolted  her,  and 
the  pain  in  her  back  increased.  She  had  nothing  to  lean 
against,  and  the  weight  of  the  child  grew  greater,  till 
she  was  forced  to  place  him  on  the  sacks  beside  her, 
though  she  could  not  loose  her  hold  for  a  moment. 

The  town  drew  in  sight  —  a  cluster  of  small  frame 
houses  and  stores  on  the  dry  prairie  beside  a  railway 
station.  There  were  no  trees  yet  which  could  be  called 
shade  trees.  The  pitilessly  severe  light  of  the  sun 
flooded  everything.  A  few  teams  were  hitched  about, 
and  in  the  lee  of  the  stores  a  few  men  could  be  seen 
seated  comfortably,  their  broad  hat-rims  flopping  up  and 
down,  their  faces  brown  as  leather. 

Markham  put  his  wife  out  at  one  of  the  grocery-stores, 
and  drove  off  down  toward  the  elevators  to  sell  his  wheat. 

The  grocer  greeted  Mrs.  Markham  in  a  perfunctorily 
kind  manner,  and  offered  her  a  chair,  which  she  took 
gratefully.  She  sat  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  almost 
without  moving,  leaning  against  the  back  of  the  high 
chair.  At  last  the  child  began  to  get  restless  and 
troublesome,  and  she  spent  half  an  hour  helping  him 
amuse  himself  around  the  nail-kegs. 

At  length  she  rose  and  went  out  on  the  walk,  carrying 
the  baby.  She  went  into  the  dry-goods  store  and  took 
a  seat  on  one  of  the  little  revolving  stools.  A  woman 
was  buying  some  woollen  goods  for  a  dress.  It  was 
worth  twenty-seven  cents  a  yard,  the  clerk  said,  but  he 
would  knock  ofF  two  cents  if  she  took  ten  yards.  It 
looked  warm,  and  Mrs.  Markham  wished  she  could 
afford  it  for  Mary. 


252  Main -Travelled  Roads 

A  pretty  young  girl  came  in  and  laughed  and  chatted 
with  the  clerk,  and  bought  a  pair  of  gloves.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  grocer.  Her  happiness  made  the 
wife  and  mother  sad.  When  Sam  came  back  she  asked 
him  for  some  money. 

"  What  you  want  to  do  with  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  want  to  spend  it,"  she  said. 

She  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  so  he  gave  her  a  dollar. 

"  I  need  a  dollar  more." 

"  Well,  I've  got  to  go  take  up  that  note  at  the  bank." 

"Well,  the  children's  got  to  have  some  new  under- 
clo'es,"  she  said. 

He  handed  her  a  two-dollar  bill  and  then  went  out  to 
pay  his  note. 

She  bought  her  cotton  flannel  and  mittens  and  thread, 
and  then  sat  leaning  against  the  counter.  It  was  noon, 
and  she  was  hungry. .  She  went  out  to  the  wagon,  got 
the  lunch  she  had  brought,  and  took  it  into  the  grocery 
to  eat  it  —  where  she  could  get  a  drink  of  water. 

The  grocer  gave  the  baby  a  stick  of  candy  and 
handed  the  mother  an  apple. 

"  It'll  kind  o'  go  down  with  your  doughnuts,"  he  said. 

After  eating  her  lunch  she  got  up  and  went  out. 
She  felt  ashamed  to  sit  there  any  longer.  She  entered 
another  dry-goods  store,  but  when  the  clerk  came  toward 
her  saying,  "  Anything  to-day,  Mrs. ?  "  she  an 
swered,  "  No,  I  guess  not,"  and  turned  away  with  foolish 
face. 

She  walked  up  and  down  the  street,  desolately  home 
less.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  herself.  She 


A  Day's  Pleasure  253 

knew  no  one  except  the  grocer.  She  grew  bitter  as  she 
saw  a  couple  of  ladies  pass,  holding  their  demi-trains  in 
the  latest  city  fashion.  Another  woman  went  by  push 
ing  a  baby  carriage,  in  which  sat  a  child  just  about  as 
big  as  her  own.  It  was  bouncing  itself  up  and  down  on 
the  long  slender  springs,  and  laughing  and  shouting. 
Its  clean  round  face  glowed  from  its  pretty  fringed  hood. 
She  looked  down  at  the  dusty  clothes  and  grimy  face  of 
her  own  little  one,  and  walked  on  savagely. 

She  went  into  the  drug  store  where  the  soda  fountain 
was,  but  it  made  her  thirsty  to  sit  there  and  she  went 
out  on  the  street  again.  She  heard  Sam  laugh,  and  saw 
him  in  a  group  of  men  over  by  the  blacksmith  shop.  He 
was  having  a  good  time  and  had  forgotten  her. 

Her  back  ached  so  intolerably  that  she  concluded  to 
go  in  and  rest  once  more  in  the  grocer's  chair.  The 
baby  was  growing  cross  and  fretful.  She  bought  five 
cents'  worth  of  candy  to  take  home  to  the  children,  and 
gave  baby  a  little  piece  to  keep  him  quiet.  She  wished 
Sam  would  come.  It  must  be  getting  late.  The  grocer 
said  it  was  not  much  after  one.  Time  seemed  terribly 
long.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  do  something  while 
she  was  in  town.  She  ran  over  her  purchases  —  yes, 
that  was  all  she  had  planned  to  buy.  She  fell  to  figur 
ing  on  the  things  she  needed.  It  was  terrible.  It  ran 
away  up  into  twenty  or  thirty  dollars  at  the  least.  Sam, 
as  well  as  she,  needed  underwear  for  the  cold  win 
ter,  but  they  would  have  to  wear  the  old  ones,  even  if 
they  were  thin  and  ragged.  She  would  not  need  a  dress, 
she  thought  bitterly,  because  she  never  went  anywhere. 


254  Main -Travelled  Roads 

She  rose  and  went  out  on  the  street  once  more,  and 
wandered  up  and  down,  looking  at  everything  in  the 
hope  of  enjoying  something. 

A  man  from  Boon  Creek  backed  a  load  of  apples  up 
to  the  sidewalk,  and  as  he  stood  waiting  for  the  grocer 
he  noticed  Mrs.  Markham  and  the  baby,  and  gave  the 
baby  an  apple.  This  was  a  pleasure.  He  had  such  a 
hearty  way  about  him.  He  on  his  part  saw  an  ordinary 
farmer's  wife  with  dusty  dress,  unkempt  hair,  and  tired 
face.  He  did  not  know  exactly  wny  she  appealed  to 
him,  but  he  tried  to  cheer  her  up. 

The  grocer  was  familiar  with  these  bedraggled  and 
weary  wives.  He  was  accustomed  to  see  them  sit  for 
hours  'in  his  big  wooden  chair,  and  nurse  tired  and  fret 
ful  children.  Their  forlorn,  aimless,  pathetic  wander 
ing  up  and  down  the  street  was  a  daily  occurrence,  and 
had  never  possessed  any  special  meaning  to  him. 


II 

In  a  cottage  around  the  corner  from  the  grocery 
store  two  men  and  a  woman  were  finishing  a  dainty 
luncheon.  The  woman  was  dressed  in  cool,  white  gar 
ments,  and  she  seemed  to  make  the  day  one  of  perfect 
comfort. 

The  home  of  the  Honorable  Mr.  Hall  was  by  no 
means  the  costliest  in  the  town,  but  his  wife  made  it  the 
most  attractive.  He  was  one  of  the  leading  lawyers  of 
the  county,  and  a  man  of  culture  and  progressive  views. 


A  Day's  Pleasure  255 

He  was  entertaining  a  friend  who  had  lectured  the  night 
before  in  the  Congregational  church. 

They  were  by  no  means  in  serious  discussion.  The 
talk  was  rather  frivolous.  Hall  had  the  ability  to  cari 
cature  men  with  a  few  gestures  and  attitudes,  and  was 
giving  to  his  Eastern  friend  some  descriptions  of  the  old- 
fashioned  Western  lawyers  he  had  met  in  his  practice. 
He  was  very  amusing,  and  his  guest  laughed  heartily 
for  a  time. 

But  suddenly  Hall  became  aware  that  Otis  was  not 
listening.  Then  he  perceived  that  he  was  peering  out 
of  the  window  at  some  one,  and  that  on  his  face  a  look 
of  bitter  sadness  was  falling. 

Hall  stopped.     "  What  do  you  see,  Otis  ?  " 

Otis  replied,  "  I  see  a  forlorn,  weary  woman." 

Mrs.  Hall  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Mrs. 
Markham  was  walking  by  the  house,  her  baby  in  her 
arms.  Savage  anger  and  weeping  were  in  her  eyes 
and  on  her  lips,  and  there  was  hopeless  tragedy  in  her 
shambling  walk  and  weak  back. 

In  the  silence  Otis  went  on  :  "I  saw  the  poor,  dejected 
creature  twice  this  morning.  I  couldn't  forget  her." 

"Who  is  she  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Hall,  very  softly. 

u  Her  name  is  Markham ;  she's  Sam  Markham's 
wife,"  said  Hall. 

The  young  wife  led  the  way  into  the  sitting  room, 
and  the  men  took  seats  and  lit  their  cigars.  Hall  was 
meditating  a  diversion  when  Otis  resumed  suddenly  : 

"  That  woman  came  to  town  to-day  to  get  a  change, 
to  have  a  little  play-spell,  and  she's  wandering  around 


256  Main -Travelled  Roads 

like  a  starved  and  weary  cat.  I  wonder  if  there  is  a 
woman  in  this  town  with  sympathy  enough  and  courage 
enough  to  go  out  and  help  that  woman  ?  The  saloon 
keepers,  the  politicians,  and  the  grocers  make  it  pleasant 
for  the  man  —  so  pleasant  that  he  forgets  his  wife.  But 
the  wife  is  left  without  a  word." 

Mrs.  Hall's  work  dropped,  and  on  her  pretty  face  was 
a  look  of  pain.  The  man's  harsh  words  had  wounded 
her  —  and  wakened  her.  She  took  up  her  hat  and 
hurried  out  on  the  walk.  The  men  looked  at  each 
other,  and  then  the  husband  said  : 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  little  sultry  for  the  men  around 
these  diggings.  Suppose  we  go  out  for  a  walk." 

Delia  felt  a  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  stood  at  the 
corner. 

"  You  look  tired,  Mrs.  Markham  ;  won't  you  come  in 
a  little  while  ?  I'm  Mrs.  Hall." 

Mrs.  Markham  turned  with  a  scowl  on  her  face  and 
a  biting  word  on  her  tongue,  but  something  in  the  sweet, 
round  little  face  of  the  other  woman  silenced  her,  and 
her  brow  smoothed  out. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  but  it's  most  time  to  go  home. 
I'm  looking  fer  Mr.  Markham  now." 

"  Oh,  come  in  a  little  while,  the  baby  is  cross  and 
tired  out ;  please  do." 

Mrs.  Markham  yielded  to  the  friendly  voice,  and 
together  the  two  women  reached  the  gate  just  as  twq 
men  hurriedly  turned  the  other  corner. 

"  Let  me  relieve  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 

The  mother  hesitated :  "  He's  so  dusty," 


A  Day's  Pleasure  257 

"  Oh,  that  won't  matter.  Oh,  what  a  big  fellow  he 
is  !  I  haven't  any  of  my  own,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  and 
a  look  passed  like  an  electric  spark  between  the  two 
women,  and  Delia  was  her  willing  guest  from  that 
moment. 

They  went  into  the  little  sitting  room,  so  dainty  and 
lovely  to  the  farmer's  wife,  and  as  she  sank  into  an 
easy-chair  she  was  faint  and  drowsy  with  the  pleasure 
of  it.  She  submitted  to  being  brushed.  She  gave  the 
baby  into  the  hands  of  the  Swedish  girl,  who  washed  its 
face  and  hands  and  sang  it  to  sleep,  while  its  mother 
sipped  some  tea.  Through  it  all  she  lay  back  in  her 
easy-chair,  not  speaking  a  word,  while  the  ache  passed 
out  of  her  back,  and  her  hot,  swollen  head  ceased  to 
throb. 

But  she  saw  everything  —  the  piano,  the  pictures,  the 
curtains,  the  wall-paper,  the  little  tea-stand.  They  were 
almost  as  grateful  to  her  as  the  food  and  fragrant  tea. 
Such  housekeeping  as  this  she  had  never  seen.  Her 
mother  had  worn  her  kitchen  floor  thin  as  brown  paper 
in  keeping  a  speckless  house,  and  she  had  been  in  houses 
that  were  larger  and  costlier,  but  something  of  the  charm 
of  her  hostess  was  in  the  arrangement  of  vases,  chairs,  or 
pictures.  It  was  tasteful. 

Mrs.  Hall  did  not  ask  about  her  affairs.  She  talked  to 
her  about  the  sturdy  little  baby,  and  about  the  things 
upon  which  Delia's  eyes  dwelt.  If  she  seemed  interested 
in  a  vase  she  was  told  what  it  was  and  where  it  was 
made.  She  was  shown  all  the  pictures  and  books.  Mrs. 
Hall  seemed  to  read  her  visitor's  mind.  She  kept  as  far 


258  Main -Travelled  Roads 

from  the  farm  and  her  guest's  affairs  as  possible,  and  at 
last  she  opened  the  piano  and  sang  to  her  —  not  slow- 
moving  hymns,  but  catchy  love-songs  full  of  sentiment, 
and  then  played  some  simple  melodies,  knowing  that 
Mrs.  Markham' s  eyes  were  studying  her  hands,  her  rings, 
and  the  flash  of  her  fingers  on  the  keys  —  seeing  more 
than  she  heard  —  and  through  it  all  Mrs.  Hall  conveyed 
the  impression  that  she,  too,  was  having  a  good  time. 

The  rattle  of  the  wagon  outside  roused  them  both. 
Sam  was  at  the  gate  for  her.  Mrs.  Markham  rose  hast 
ily.  u  Oh,  it's  almost  sundown  !  "  she  gasped  in  astonish 
ment  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 

u  Oh,  that  won't  kill  anybody,"  replied  her  hostess. 
"  Don't  hurry.  Carrie,  take  the  baby  out  to  the  wagon 
for  Mrs.  Markham  while  I  help  her  with  her  things." 

"Oh,  I've  had  such  a  good  time,"  Mrs.  Markham 
said  as  they  went  down  the  little  walk. 

"  So  have  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Hall.  She  took  the  baby  a 
moment  as  her  guest  climbed  in.  "  Oh,  you  big,  fat 
fellow  !  "  she  cried  as  she  gave  him  a  squeeze.  "  You 
must  bring  your  wife  in  oftener,  Mr.  Markham,"  she 
said,  as  she  handed  the  baby  up. 

Sam  was  staring  with  amazement. 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  he  finally  managed  to  say. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Mrs.  Markham. 

"  Good-night,  dear,"  called  Mrs.  Hall,  and  the  wagon 
began  to  rattle  off. 

The  tenderness  and  sympathy  in  her  voice  brought 
the  tears  to  Delia's  eyes  —  not  hot  nor  bitter  tears,  but 
tears  that  cooled  her  eyes  and  cleared  her  mind. 


A  Day's  Pleasure  259 

The  wind  had  gone  down,  and  the  red  sunlight  fell 
mistily  over  the  world  of  corn  and  stubble.  The  crickets 
were  still  chirping  and  the  feeding  cattle  were  drifting 
toward  the  farmyards.  The  day  had  been  made  beautiful 
by  human  sympathy. 


MRS.   RIPLEY'S  TRIP 

"And  in  winter  the  winds 
sweep  the  snows  across  it" 


MRS.   RIPLEY'S  TRIP 

THE  night  was  in  windy  November,  and  the  blast, 
threatening  rain,  roared  around  the  poor  little  shanty  of 
Uncle  Ripley,  set  like  a  chicken-trap  on  the  vast  Iowa 
prairie.  Uncle  Ethan  was  mending  his  old  violin,  with 
many  York  State  "  dums !  "  and  u  I  gol  darns  !  "  totally 
oblivious  of  his  tireless  old  wife,  who,  having  "  finished 
the  supper-dishes,"  sat  knitting  a  stocking,  evidently 
for  the  little  grandson  who  lay  before  the  stove  like  a 
cat. 

Neither  of  the  old  people  wore  glasses,  and  theii 
light  was  a  tallow  candle ;  they  couldn't  afford  "  noner 
o*  them  new-fangled  lamps."  The  room  was  small, 
the  chairs  were  wooden,  and  the  walls  bare  —  a  home 
where  poverty  was  a  never-absent  guest.  The  old  lady 
looked  pathetically  little,  weazened,  and  hopeless  in  her 
ill-fitting  garments  (whose  original  color  had  long  since 
vanished),  intent  as  she  was  on  the  stocking  in  her 
knotted,  stiffened  fingers,  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
sparkle  in  her  little  black  eyes,  and  an  unusual  resolu 
tion  in  the  straight  line  of  her  withered  and  shapeless 
lips. 

Suddenly  she  paused,  stuck  a  needle  in  the  spare 
knob  of  her  hair  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  looking 
at  Ripley,  said  decisively  :  u  Ethan  Ripley,  you'll  haff 

263 


264  Main -Travelled  Roads 

to  do  your  own  cooking  from  now  on  to  New  Year's. 
I'm  goin'  back  to  Yaark  State." 

The  old  man's  leather-brown  face  stiffened  into  a 
look  of  quizzical  surprise  for  a  moment ;  then  he 
cackled,  incredulously  :  "  Ho  !  Ho  !  har  I  Sho  !  be  y', 
now  ?  I  want  to  know  if  y'  be." 

"  Well,  you'll  find  out." 

"  Goin'  to  start  to-morrow,  mother  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  I  ain't ;  but  I  am  on  Thursday.  I  want 
to  get  to  Sally's  by  Sunday,  sure,  an'  to  Silas's  on 
ThanksgivinV 

There  was  a  note  in  the  old  woman's  voice  that 
brought  genuine  stupefaction  into  the  face  of  Uncle 
Ripley.  Of  course  in  this  case,  as  in  all  others,  the 
money  consideration  was  uppermost. 

u  Howgy  'xpect  to  get  the  money,  mother  ?  Any 
body  died  an'  left  yeh  a  pile  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind  where  I  get  the  money,  so  's  't 
you  don't  haff  to  bear  it.  The  land  knows  if  I'd  'a' 
waited  for  you  to  pay  my  way — " 

"  You  needn't  twit  me  of  bein'  poor,  old  woman," 
said  Ripley,  flaming  up  after  the  manner  of  many  old 
people.  "  I've  done  my  part  t'  get  along.  I've  worked 
day  in  and  day  out  — " 

"  Oh  !  /  ain't  done  no  work,  have  I  ?  "  snapped 
she,  laying  down  the  stocking  and  levelling  a  needle  at 
him,  and  putting  a  frightful  emphasis  on  "  I." 

"  I  didn't  say  you  hadn't  done  no  work." 

"Yes,  you  did!" 

"  I  didn't  neither.     I  said  —  " 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  265 

"  I  know  what  you  said." 

"  I  said  I'd  done  my  part !  "  roared  the  husband,  dom 
inating  her  as  usual  by  superior  lung  power.  "  I  didn't 
say  you  hadn't  done  your  part,"  he  added  with  an  un 
fortunate  touch  of  emphasis. 

u  I  know  y'  didn't  say  it,  but  y'  meant  it.  I  don't 
know  what  y'  call  doin'  my  part,  Ethan  Ripley ;  but  if 
cookin'  for  a  drove  of  harvest  hands  and  thrashin'  hands, 
takin'  care  o'  the  eggs  and  butter,  V  diggin'  'taters  an' 
milkin'  ain't  my  part,  I  don't  never  expect  to  do  my 
part,  'n'  you  might  as  well  know  it  fust 's  last. 

"I'm  sixty  years  old,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little 
break  in  her  harsh  voice,  dominating  him  now  by 
woman's  logic,  "  an'  I've  never  had  a  day  to  myself, 
not  even  Fourth  o'  July.  If  I've  went  a-visitin'  'r  to 
a  picnic,  I've  had  to  come  home  an'  milk  'n'  get  supper 
for  you  men-folks.  I  ain't  been  away  t'  stay  overnight 
for  thirteen  years  in  this  house,  'n'  it  was  just  so  in 
Davis  County  for  ten  more.  For  twenty-three  years, 
Ethan  Ripley,  I've  stuck  right  to  the  stove  an'  churn 
without  a  day  or  a  night  off."  / 

Her  voice  choked  again,  but  she  rallied,  and  con 
tinued  impressively,  u  And  now  I'm  a-goin*  back  to 
Yaark  State." 

Ethan  was  vanquished.  He  stared  at  her  in  speech 
less  surprise,  his  jaw  hanging.  It  was  incredible. 

"  For  twenty-three  years,"  she  went  on,  musingly, 
u  I've  just  about  promised  myself  every  year  I'd  go 
back  an'  see  my  folks.''  She  was  distinctly  talking  to 
herself  now,  and  her  voice  had  a  touching,  wistful 


Main -Travelled  Roads 

cadence.  "  I've  wanted  to  go  back  an*  see  the  old  folks, 
an'  the  hills  where  we  played,  an'  eat  apples  oft*  the  old 
tree  down  by  the  well.  I've  had  them  trees  an'  hills  in 
my  mind  days  and  days  —  nights,  too  —  an' the  girls  I 
used  to  know,  an'  my  own  folks  — " 

She  fell  into  a  silent  muse,  which  lasted  so  long  that 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  grew  loud  as  a  gong  in  the 
man's  ears,  and  the  wind  outside  seemed  to  sound 
drearier  than  usual.  He  returned  to  the  money  prob 
lem;  kindly,  though. 

"  But  how  y'  goin'  t'  raise  the  money  ?  I  ain't  got 
no  extra  cash  this  time.  Agin  Roach  is  paid,  an'  the 
interest  paid,  we  ain't  got  no  hundred  dollars  to  spare, 
Jane,  not  by  a  jugful." 

"  Wai,  don't  you  lay  awake  nights  studyin'  on  where 
I'm  a-goin'  to  get  the  money,"  said  the  old  woman,  tak 
ing  delight  in  mystifying  him.  She  had  him  now,  and 
he  couldn't  escape.  He  strove  to  show  his  indifference, 
however,  by  playing  a  tune  or  two  on  the  violin. 

"  Come,  Tukey,  you  better  climb  the  wooden  hill," 
Mrs.  Ripley  said,  a  half-hour  later,  to  the  little  chap  on 
the  floor,  who  was  beginning  to  get  drowsy  under  the 
influence  of  his  grandpa's  riddling.  "  Pa,  you  had  orta 
'a'  put  that  string  in  the  clock  to-day  —  on  the  'larm 
side  the  string  is  broke,"  she  said,  upon  returning  from 
the  boy's  bedroom.  "  I  orta  git  up  early  to-morrow,  to 
git  some  sewin'  done.  Land  knows,  I  can't  fix  up 
much,  but  they  is  a  little  I  c'n  do.  I  want  to  look 
decent." 

They  were  alone  now,  and  they  both  sat  expectantly. 


Mrs.   Rlpley's  Trip  267 

"  You  'pear  to  think,  mother,  that  Pm  agin  yer  goin'." 

"  Wai,  it  would  kinder  seem  as  if  y'  hadn't  hustled 
yerself  any  t'  help  me  git  off." 

He  was  smarting  under  the  sense  of  being  wronged. 
"  Wai,  I'm  just  as  willin'  you  should  go  as  I  am  for 
myself,  but  if  I  ain't  got  no  money  I  don't  sec  how 
I'm  goin'  to  send  — " 

"  I  don't  want  ye  to  send ;  nobody  ast  ye  to,  Ethan 
Ripley.  I  guess  if  I  had  what  I've  earnt  since  we 
came  on  this  farm  I'd  have  enough  to  go  to  Jericho 
with." 

"  You've  got  as  much  out  of  it  as  I  have,"  he  replied 
gently.  "  You  talk  about  your  goin'  back.  Ain't  I  been 
wantin'  to  go  back  myself?  And  ain't  I  kep'  still  'cause 
I  see  it  wa'n't  no  use  ?  I  guess  I've  worked  jest  as  long 
and  as  hard  as  you,  an'  in  storms  an'  in  mud  an'  heat,  ef 
it  comes  t'  that." 

The  woman  was  staggered,  but  she  wouldn't  give  up ; 
she  must  get  in  one  more  thrust. 

"  Wai,  if  you'd  'a'  managed  as  well  as  I  have,  you'd 
have  some  money  to  go  with."  And  she  rose  and  went 
to  mix  her  bread  and  set  it  "  raisin'." 

He  sat  by  the  fire  twanging  his  fiddle  softly.  He 
was  plainly  thrown  into  gloomy  retrospection,  something 
quite  unusual  for  him.  But  his  fingers  picking  out  the 
bars  of  a  familiar  tune  set  him  to  smiling,  and  whipping 
his  bow  across  the  strings,  he  forgot  all  about  his  wife's 
resolutions  and  his  own  hardships.  u  Trouble  always 
slid  off  his  back  like  punkins  off  a  haystack,  anyway," 
his  wife  said. 


268  Main -Travelled  Roads 

The  old  man  still  sat  fiddling  softly  after  his  wife 
disappeared  in  the  hot  and  stuffy  little  bedroom  off  the 
kitchen.  His  shaggy  head  bent  lower  over  his  violin. 
He  heard  her  shoes  drop  —  one,  two.  Pretty  soon  she 
called : 

"  Come,  put  up  that  squeakin'  old  fiddle,  and  go  to 
bed.  Seems  as  if  you  orta  have  sense  enough  not  to 
set  there  keepin'  everybody  in  the  house  awake." 

"  You  hush  up,"  retorted  he.  u  I'll  come  when  I  git 
ready,  and  not  till.  Til  be  glad  when  you're  gone  —  " 

"Yes,  I  warrant  that" 

With  which  amiable  good-night  they  went  off  to 
sleep,  or  at  least  she  did,  while  he  lay  awake  pondering 
on  "  where  under  the  sun  she  was  goin'  t'  raise  that 
money." 

The  next  day  she  was  up  bright  and  early,  working 
away  on  her  own  affairs,  ignoring  Ripley  entirely,  the 
fixed  look  of  resolution  still  on  her  little  old  wrinkled 
face.  She  killed  a  hen  and  dressed  and  baked  it.  She 
fried  up  a  pan  of  doughnuts  and  made  a  cake.  She  was 
engaged  in  the  doughnuts  when  a  neighbor  came  in,  one 
of  these  women  who  take  it  as  a  personal  affront  when 
any  one  in  the  neighborhood  does  anything  without 
asking  their  advice.  She  was  fat,  and  could  talk  a  man 
blind  in  three  minutes  by  the  watch.  Her  neighbor 
said  : 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  Mis'  Ripley  ?  " 

"  I  dun  know.  I  expect  you  hear  about  all  they  is 
goin'  on  in  this  neighborhood,"  replied  Mrs.  Ripley,  with 
crushing  bluntness ;  but  the  gossip  did  not  flinch. 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  269 

"  Well,  Sett  Turner  told  me  that  her  husband  told  her 
that  Ripley  told  him  this  mornin'  that  you  was  goin' 
back  East  on  a  visit." 

"Wai,  what  of  it?" 

"Well,  air  yeh  ?  " 

"The  Lord  willin'  an'  the  weather  permitting  I 
expect  I  be." 

"  Good  land,  I  want  to  know  !  Well,  well !  I  never 
was  so  astonished  in  my  whole  life.  I  said,  says  I,  c  It 
can't  be.'  c  Well,'  ses  'e,  c  tha's  what  she  told  me,'  ses  'e. 
c  But,'  says  I,  '  she  is  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  go 
gallavantin'  off  East,'  ses  I.  c  An','  ses  he,  '  but  it  comes 
from  good  authority,'  ses  he.  'Well,  then,  it  must  be 
so,'  ses  I.  But,  land  sakes  !  do  tell  me  all  about  it. 
How  come  you  to  make  up  y'r  mind  ?  All  these  years 
you've  been  kind  a'  talkin'  it  over,  an'  now  y'r  actshelly 
goin'  —  well,  I  never!  CI  s'pose  Ripley  furnishes  the 
money,'  ses  I  to  him.  c  Well,  no,'  ses  'e.  *  Ripley  says 
he'll  be  blowcd  if  he  sees  where  the  money's  coming 
from,'  ses  'e ;  and  ses  I,  '  But  maybe  she's  jest  jokin',' 
ses  I.  c  Not  much,'  he  says.  S'  'e  :  '  Ripley  believes 
she's  goin'  fast  enough.  He's  jest  as  anxious  to  find 
out  as  we  be  — '  " 

Here  Mrs.  Doudney  paused  for  breath ;  she  had 
walked  so  fast  and  rested  so  little  that  her  interminable 
flow  of  "  ses  Ps  "  and  "  ses  he's  "  ceased  necessarily. 
She  had  reached,  moreover,  the  point  of  most  vital 
interest  —  the  money. 

"  An'  you'll  find  out  jest  'bout  as  soon  as  he  does," 
was  the  dry  response  from  the  figure  hovering  over  the 


270  Main -Travel  led  Roads 

stove;  and  with  all  her  manoeuvring  that  was  all  she 
got. 

All  day  Ripley  went  about  his  work  exceedingly 
thoughtful  for  him.  It  was  cold  blustering  weather. 
The  wind  rustled  among  the  corn-stalks  with  a  wild  and 
mournful  sound,  the  geese  and  ducks  went  sprawling 
down  the  wind,  and  the  horses*  coats  were  ruffled  and 
backs  raised. 

The  old  man  was  husking  all  alone  in  the  field,  his 
spare  form  rigged  out  in  two  or  three  ragged  coats,  his 
hands  inserted  in  a  pair  of  gloves  minus  nearly  all  the 
fingers,  his  thumbs  done  up  in  "  stalls,"  and  his  feet  thrust 
into  huge  coarse  boots.  The  "  down  ears "  wet  and 
chapped  his  hands,  already  worn  to  the  quick.  Toward 
night  it  grew  colder  and  threatened  snow.  In  spite  of  all 
these  attacks  he  kept  his  cheerfulness,  and  though  he 
was  very  tired,  he  was  softened  in  temper. 

Having  plenty  of  time  to  think  matters  over,  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  old  woman  needed  a 
play-spell.  "  I  ain't  likely  to  be  no  richer  next  year  than 
I  am  this  one ;  if  I  wait  till  I'm  able  to  send  her  she 
won't  never  go.  I  calc'late  I  c'n  git  enough  out  o' 
them  shoats  to  send  her.  I'd  kind  a'  lotted  on  eat'n'  them 
pigs  done  up  in  sassengers,  but  if  the  oP  woman  goes 
East,  Tukey  an'  me'll  kind  a'  haff  to  pull  through  without 
'em.  We'll  have  a  turkey  Pr  Thanksgivin',  an'  a  chicken 
once  'n  a  while.  Lord !  but  we'll  miss  the  gravy  on 
the  flapjacks."  (He  smacked  his  lips  over  the  thought 
of  the  lost  dainty.)  "  But  let  'er  rip  !  We  can  stand  it. 
Then  there  is  my  buffalo  overcoat.  I'd  kind  a'  calc'lated 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  271 

on  havin'  a  buffalo  —  but  that's  gone  up  the  spout  along 
with  them  sassengers." 

These  heroic  sacrifices  having  been  determined  upon, 
he  put  them  into  effect  at  once. 

This  he  was  able  to  do,  for  his  corn-rows  ran  along 
side  the  road  leading  to  Cedarville,  and  his  neighbors 
were  passing  almost  all  hours  of  the  day. 

It  would  have  softened  Jane  Ripley's  heart  could  she 
have  seen  his  bent  and  stiffened  form  among  the  corn- 
rows,  the  cold  wind  piercing  to  the  bone  through  his 
threadbare  and  insufficient  clothing.  The  rising  wind 
sent  the  snow  rattling  among  the  moaning  stalks  at  in 
tervals.  The  cold  made  his  poor  dim  eyes  water,  and 
he  had  to  stop  now  and  then  to  swing  his  arms  about 
his  chest  to  warm  them.  His  voice  was  hoarse  with 
shouting  at  the  shivering  team. 

That  night  as  Mrs.  Ripley  was  clearing  the  dishes 
away  she  got  to  thinking  about  the  departure  of  the  next 
day,  and  she  began  to  soften.  She  gave  way  to  a  few 
tears  when  little  Tewksbury  Gilchrist,  her  grandson, 
came  up  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Gran' ma,  you  ain't  goin'  to  stay  away  always,  are 
yeh  ? " 

"Why,  course  not,  Tukey.  What  made  y'  think 
that  ? " 

"  Well,  y'  ain't  told  us  nawthin'  't  all  about  it.  An* 
yeh  kind  o'  look  's  if  yeh  was  mad." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  mad  ;  I'm  jest  a-thinkin',  Tukey.  Y' 
see,  I  come  away  from  them  hills  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  a'most ;  before  I  married  y'r  grandad.  And  I 


272  Main -Travelled  Roads 

ain't  never  been  back.  'Most  all  my  folks  is  there, 
sonny,  an'  we've  been  s'  poor  all  these  years  I  couldn't 
seem  t'  never  git  started.  Now,  when  I'm  'most  ready 
t'  go,  I  feel  kind  a  queer —  's  if  I'd  cry." 

And  cry  she  did,  while  little  Tewksbury  stood  patting 
her  trembling  hands.  Hearing  Ripley's  step  on  the 
porch,  she  rose  hastily  and,  drying  her  eyes,  plunged  at 
the  work  again. 

Ripley  came  in  with  a  big  armful  of  wood,  which 
he  rolled  into  the  wood-box  with  a  thundering  crash. 
Then  he  pulled  off  his  mittens,  slapped  them  together 
to  knock  off  the  ice  and  snow,  and  laid  them  side  by 
side  under  the  stove.  He  then  removed  cap,  coat, 
blouse,  and  finally  his  boots,  which  he  laid  upon  the 
wood-box,  the  soles  turned  toward  the  stove-pipe. 

As  he  sat  down  without  speaking,  he  opened  the 
front  doors  of  the  stove,  and  held  the  palms  of  his 
stiffened  hands  to  the  blaze.  The  light  brought  out  a 
thoughtful  look  on  his  large,  uncouth,  yet  kindly,  visage. 
Life  had  laid  hard  lines  on  his  brown  skin,  but  it  had 
not  entirely  soured  a  naturally  kind  and  simple  nature. 
It  had  made  him  penurious  and  dull  and  iron-muscled  ; 
had  stifled  all  the  slender  flowers  of  his  nature ;  yet 
there  was  warm  soil  somewhere  hid  in  his  heart. 

"  It's  snowin'  like  all  p'ssessed,"  he  remarked  finally. 
"I  guess  we'll  have  a  sleigh-ride  to-morrow.  I  calc'late 
t'  drive  y'  daown  in  scrumptious  style.  If  you  must 
leave,  why,  we'll  give  yeh  a  whoopin'  old  send-ofF — 
won't  we,  Tukey  ?  " 

Nobody  replying,  he  waited  a  moment.     "  I've  ben 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  273 

a-thinkin'  things  over  kind  o'  t'-day,  mother,  an'  I've 
come  t'  the  conclusion  that  we  have  been  kind  o'  hard 
on  yeh,  without  knowin'  it,  y'  see.  Y'  see  I'm  kind  o' 
easy-goin',  an'  little  Tuke  he's  only  a  child,  an*  we  ain't 
c'nsidered  how  you  felt." 

She  didn't  appear  to  be  listening,  but  she  was,  and  he 
didn't  appear,  on  his  part,  to  be  talking  to  her,  and  he 
kept  his  voice  as  hard  and  dry  as  he  could. 

"  An'  I  was  tellin'  Tukey  t'-day  that  it  was  a  dum 
shame  our  crops  hadn't  turned  out  better.  An'  when  I 
saw  ol'  Hatfield  go  by  I  hailed  him,  an'  asked  him  what 
he'd  gimme  for  two  o'  m'  shoats.  Wai,  the  upshot  is, 
I  sent  t'  town  for  some  things  I  calc'late  you'd  need. 
An'  here's  a  ticket  to  Georgetown,  and  ten  dollars. 
Why,  ma,  what's  up  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ripley  broke  down,  and  with  her  hands  all  wet 
with  dish-water,  as  they  were,  covered  her  face,  and 
sobbed.  She  felt  like  kissing  him,  but  she  didn't. 
Tewksbury  began  to  whimper  too;  but  the  old  man 
was  astonished.  His  wife  had  not  wept  for  years 
(before  him).  He  rose  and  walking  clumsily  up  to  her 
timidly  touched  her  hair  — 

"  Why,  mother  !  What's  the  matter  ?  What  've  I 
done  now  ?  I  was  calc'latin'  to  sell  them  pigs  anyway. 
Hatfield  jest  advanced  the  money  on  'em." 

She  hopped  up  and  dashed  into  the  bedroom,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  returned  with  a  yarn  mitten,  tied  around 
the  wrist,  which  she  laid  on  the  table  with  a  thump, 
saying :  u  I  don't  want  yer  money.  There's  money 
enough  to  take  me  where  I  want  to  go." 
T 


274  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Whee  —  ew  !  Thunder  and  gimpsum  root !  Where 
'd  ye  get  that  ?  Didn't  dig  it  out  of  a  hole  ?  " 

"  No,  I  jest  saved  it  —  a  dime  at  a  time  —  see  !  " 

Here  she  turned  it  out  on  the  table  —  some  bills,  but 
mostly  silver  dimes  and  quarters. 

"  Thunder  and  scissors  !  Must  be  two  er  three 
hundred  dollars  there,"  he  exclaimed. 

u  They's  jest  seventy-five  dollars  and  thirty  cents ; 
jest  about  enough  to  go  back  on.  Tickets  is  fifty-five 
dollars,  goin'  and  comin'.  That  leaves  twenty  dollars 
for  other  expenses,  not  countin'  what  I've  already  spent, 
which  is  six-fifty,"  said  she,  recovering  her  self-posses 
sion.  "  It's  plenty." 

"  But  y'  ain't  calc'lated  on  no  sleepers  nor  hotel 
bills." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  on  no  sleeper.  Mis'  Doudney  says 
it's  jest  scandalous  the  way  things  is  managed  on  them 
cars.  I'm  goin'  on  the  old-fashioned  cars,  where  they 
ain't  no  half-dressed  men  runnin'  around." 

"  But  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  them,  mother ;  at  your 
age-" 

"  There !  you  needn't  throw  my  age  an'  homeliness 
into  my  face,  Ethan  Ripley.  If  I  hadn't  waited  an' 
tended  on  you  so  long,  I'd  look  a  little  more 's  I  did 
when  I  married  yeh." 

Ripley  gave  it  up  in  despair.  He  didn't  realize  fully 
enough  how  the  proposed  trip  had  unsettled  his  wife's 
nerves.  She  didn't  realize  it  herself. 

"As  for  the  hotel  bills,  they  won't  be  none.  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  pay  them  pirates  as  much  for  a  day's  board  as 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  275 

vve'd  charge  for  a  week's,  and  have  nawthin'  to  eat  but 
dishes.     I'm  goin'  to  take  a  chicken  an'  some  hard-boiled 
eggs,  an'  I'm  goin'  right  through  to  Georgetown." 
"Wai,    all   right,    mother;    but   here's   the   ticket    I 

got." 

"  I  don't  want  yer  ticket." 

"  But  you've  got  to  take  it." 

"Well,  I  haint." 

"  Why,  yes,  ye  have.  It's  bought,  an'  they  won't 
take  it  back." 

"  Won't  they  ?  "     She  was  perplexed  again. 

"  Not  much  they  won't.  I  ast  'em.  A  ticket  sold  is 
sold." 

"Wai,  if  they  won't  —  " 

"You  bet  they  won't." 

"  I  s'pose  I'll  haff  to  use  it."     And  that  ended  it. 

They  were  a  familiar  sight  as  they  rode  down  the 
road  toward  town  next  day.  As  usual,  Mrs.  Ripley  sat 
up  straight  and  stiff  as  "a  half-drove  wedge  in  a  white- 
oak  log."  The  day  was  cold  and  raw.  There  was 
some  snow  on  the  ground,  but  not  enough  to  warrant  the 
use  of  sleighs.  It  was  "  neither  sleddin'  nor  wheelin'." 
The  old  people  sat  on  a  board  laid  across  the  box, 
and  had  an  old  quilt  or  two  drawn  up  over  their  knees. 
Tewksbury  lay  in  the  back  part  of  the  box  (which  was 
filled  with  hay),  where  he  jounced  up  and  down,  in  com 
pany  with  a  queer  old  trunk  and  a  brand-new  imitation- 
leather  hand-bag. 

There  is  no  ride  quite  so  desolate  and  uncomfortable  as 
a  ride  in  a  lumber-wagon  on  a  cold  day  in  autumn,  when 


276  Main -Travelled  Roads 

the  ground  is  frozen,  and  the  wind  is  strong  and  raw  with 
threatening  snow.  The  wagon-wheels  grind  along  in  the 
snow,  the  cold  gets  in  under  the  seat  at  the  calves  of  one's 
legs,  and  the  ceaseless  bumping  of  the  bottom  of  the  box 
on  the  feet  is  almost  intolerable. 

There  was  not  much  talk  on  the  way  down,  and  what 
little  there  was  related  mainly  to  certain  domestic  regula 
tions,  to  be  strictly  followed,  regarding  churning,  pickles, 
pancakes,  etc.  Mrs.  Ripley  wore  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
and  carried  her  queer  little  black  bonnet  in  her  hand. 
Tewksbury  was  also  wrapped  in  a  shawl.  The  boy's 
teeth  were  pounding  together  like  castanets  by  the  time 
they  reached  Cedarville,  and  every  muscle  ached  with 
the  fatigue  of  shaking. 

After  a  few  purchases  they  drove  down  to  the  station, 
a  frightful  little  den  (common  in  the  West),  which  was 
always  too  hot  or  too  cold.  It  happened  to  be  hot  just 
now  —  a  fact  which  rejoiced  little  Tewksbury. 

"Now  git  my  trunk  stamped,  'r  fixed,  'r  whatever  they 
call  it,"  she  said  to  Ripley,  in  a  commanding  tone,  which 
gave  great  delight  to  the  inevitable  crowd  of  loafers  be 
ginning  to  assemble.  "  Now  remember,  Tukey,  have 
grandad  kill  that  biggest  turkey  night  before  Thanks 
giving,  an'  then  you  run  right  over  to  Mis'  Doudney's  — 
she's  got  a  nawful  tongue,  but  she  can  bake  a  turkey 
first-rate  —  an'  she'll  fix  up  some  squash-pies  for  yeh. 
You  can  warm  up  one  o'  them  mince-pies.  I  wish 
ye  could  be  with  me,  but  ye  can't ;  so  do  the  best  ye 
can." 

Ripley  returning   now,  she   said :   u  Wai,  now,  I've 


Mrs.   Ripley's  Trip  277 

fixed  things  up  the  best  I  could.  Pve  baked  bread 
enough  to  last  a  week,  an'  Mis'  Doudney  has  promised 
to  bake  for  yeh  —  " 

"  I  don't  like  her  bakin'." 

"  Wai,  you'll  haff  to  stand  it  till  I  get  back,  V  you'll 
find  a  jar  o'  sweet  pickles  an'  some  crab-apple  sauce 
down  suller,  'n'  you'd  better  melt  up  brown  sugar  for 
'lasses,  'n'  for  goodness'  sake  don't  eat  all  them  mince- 
pies  up  the  fust  week,  'n'  see  that  Tukey  ain't  froze 
goin'  to  school.  An'  now  you'd  better  get  out  for  home. 
Good-by !  an'  remember  them  pies." 

As  they  were  riding  home,  Ripley  roused  up  after  a 
long  silence. 

u  Did  she  —  a  —  kiss  you  good-by,  Tukey  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  piped  Tewksbury. 

"Thunder!  didn't  she?"  After  a  silence:  "She 
didn't  me,  neither.  I  guess  she  kind  a'  sort  a'  forgot  it, 
bein'  so  flustrated,  y'  know." 

One  cold,  windy,  intensely  bright  day,  Mrs.  Stacey, 
who  lives  about  tv/o  miles  from  Cedarville,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  saw  a  queer  little  figure  struggling  along 
the  road,  which  was  blocked  here  and  there  with  drifts. 
It  was  an  old  woman  laden  with  a  good  half-dozen 
parcels,  which  the  wind  seemed  determined  to  wrench 
from  her. 

She  was  dressed  in  black,  with  a  full  skirt,  and  her 
cloak  being  short,  the  wind  had  excellent  opportunity  to 
inflate  her  garments  and  sail  her  off  occasionally  into  the 
deep  snow  outside  the  track,  but  she  held  out  bravely 


Main -Travelled  Roads 

till  she  reached  the  gate.  As  she  turned  in,  Mrs.  Stacey 
cried : 

"Why!  it's  Gran'ma  Ripley,  just  getting  back  from 
her  trip.  Why  !  how  do  you  do  ?  Come  in.  Why ! 
you  must  be  nearly  frozen.  Let  me  take  off  your  hat 
and  veil. 

"No,  thank  ye  kindly,  but  I  can't  stop,"  was  the 
given  reply.  "  I  must  be  gittin'  back  to  Ripley.  I  ex- 
pec'  that  man  has  jest  let  ev'rything  go  six  ways  f'r 
Sunday." 

"  Oh,  you  must  sit  down  just  a  minute  and  warm." 

"  Wai,  I  will ;  but  I've  got  to  git  home  by  sundown 
sure.  I  don't  s'pose  they's  a  thing  in  the  house  to  eat," 
'she  said  solemnly. 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  Stacey  was  here,  so  he  could 
take  you  home.  An'  the  boys  at  school  —  " 

"  Don't  need  any  help,  if  't  wa'nt  for  these  bundles 
an'  things.  I  guess  I'll  jest  leave  some  of  'em  here, 
an'  —  Here !  take  one  of  these  apples.  I  brought 
'em  from  Lizy  Jane's  suller,  back  to  Yaark  State." 

"  Oh !  they're  delicious !  You  must  have  had  a 
lovely  time." 

"  Pretty  good.  But  I  kep'  thinkin'  of  Ripley  an' 
Tukey  all  the  time.  I  s'pose  they  have  had  a  gay  time 
of  it "  (she  meant  the  opposite  of  gay).  "  Wai,  as  I 
told  Lizy  Jane,  I've  had  my  spree,  an'  now  I've  got  to 
git  back  to  work.  They  ain't  no  rest  for  such  as  we 
arc.  As  I  told  Lizy  Jane,  them  folks  in  the  big  houses 
have  Thanksgivin'  dinners  every  day  of  their  lives,  and 
men  an'  women  in  splendid  clp's  to  wait  on  'em,  50  't 


Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip  279 

Thanksgivin'  don't  mean  anything  to  'cm ;  but  we  poor 
critters,  we  make  a  great  to-do  if  we  have  a  good  dinner 
onct  a  year.  I've  saw  a  pile  o'  this  world,  Mrs.  Stacey 

—  a  pile  of  it !     I  didn't  think  they  was  so  many  big 
houses  in  the  world  as  I  saw  b'tween  here  an'  Chicago. 
Wai,  I  can't  set  here  gabbin'."      She  rose  resolutely. 
'•'  I  must  get  home  to  Ripley.     Jest  kind  0'  stow  them 
bags  away.     I'll  take  two  an'  leave  them  three  others. 
Good-by !     I   must  be  gittin'  home  to  Ripley.     He'll 
want  his  supper  on  time."  f~ 

And  off  up  the  road  the  indomitable  little  figure 
trudged,  head  held  down  to  the  cutting  blast  —  little 
snow-fly,  a  speck  on  a  measureless  expanse,  crawling 
along  with  painful  breathing,  and  slipping,  sliding  steps 

—  "  Gittin'  home  to  Ripley  an'  the  boy." 

Ripley  was  out  to  the  barn  when  she  entered,  but 
Tewksbury  was  building  a  fire  in  the  old  cook-stove. 
He  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  ran  to  her.  She 
seized  him  and  kissed  him,  and  it  did  her  so  much  good 
she  hugged  him  close,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again, 
crying  hysterically. 

"  Oh,  gran'ma,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  We've  had 
an  awful  time  since  you've  been  gone." 

She  released  him,  and  looked  around.  A  lot  of  dirty 
dishes  were  on  the  table,  the  table-cloth  was  a  "  sight 
to  behold "  (as  she  afterward  said),  and  so  was  the 
stove  —  kettle-marks  all  over  the  table-cloth,  splotches 
of  pancake  batter  all  over  the  stove. 

"  Wai,  I  sh'd  say  as  much,"  she  dryly  assented,  un 
tying  her  bonnet-strings. 


280  Main -Travelled  Roads 

When  Ripley  came  in  she  had  her  regimentals  on, 
the  stove  was  brushed,  the  room  swept,  and  she  was 
elbow-deep  in  the  dish-pan.  "  Hullo,  mother !  Got 
back,  hev  yeh  ?  " 

"  I  sh'd  say  it  was  about  time"  she  replied  curtly, 
without  looking  up  or  ceasing  work.  "  Has  ol* 
c  Grumpy  '  dried  up  yit  ?  "  This  was  her  greeting. 

Her  trip  was  a  fact  now;  no  chance  could  rob  her 
of  it.  She  had  looked  forward  twenty-three  years  toward 
it,  and  now  she  could  look  back  at  it  accomplished. 
She  took  up  her  burden  again,  never  more  thinking  to 
lay  it  down. 


UNCLE  ETHAN   RIFLE* 

"Like  the  Main-Travelled  Road  of 

Life,  it  is  traversed  by  many  classes 
of  people  " 


UNCLE   ETHAN   RIPLEY 

UNCLE  ETHAN  had  a  theory  that  a  man's  character 
could  be  told  by  the  way  he  sat  in  a  wagon  seat. 

"  A  mean  man  sets  right  plumb  in  the  middle  o'  the 
seat,  as  much  as  to  say,  'Walk,  gol  darn  yeh,  who 
cares ! '  But  a  man  that  sets  in  the  corner  o'  the 
seat,  much  as  to  say,  '  Jump  in  —  cheaper  t'  ride  'n  to 
walk,'  you  can  jest  tie  to." 

Uncle  Ripley  was  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  stranger, 
therefore,  before  he  came  opposite  the  potato  patch, 
where  the  old  man  was  "  bugging  his  vines."  The 
stranger  drove  a  jaded-looking  pair  of  calico  ponies, 
hitched  to  a  clattering  democrat  wagon,  and  he  sat  on 
the  extreme  end  of  the  seat,  with  the  lines  in  hh;  right 
hand,  while  his  left  rested  on  his  thigh,  with  his  little 
finger  gracefully  crooked  and  his  elbows  akimbo.  He 
wore  a  blue  shirt,  with  gay-colored  armlets  just  above 
the  elbows,  and  his  vest  hung  unbuttoned  down  his 
lank  ribs.  It  was  plain  he  was  well  pleased  with  him 
self. 

As  he  pulled  up  and  .hrew  one  leg  over  the  end  of 
the  seat,  Uncle  Ethan  observed  that  the  left  spring  was 
much  more  worn  than  the  other,  which  proved  that  it 
was  not  accidental,  but  that  it  was  the  driver's  habit  to 
sit  on  that  end  of  the  seat. 

283 


284  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  the  stranger,  pleasantly. 

"  Good  afternoon,  sir." 

"  Bugs  purty  plenty  ?  " 

"  Plenty  enough,  I  gol !  I  don't  see  where  they  all 
come  fum." 

"  Early  Rose  ? "  inquired  the  man,  as  if  referring  tc* 
the  bugs. 

"  No ;  Peachblows  an'  Carter  Reds.  My  Early 
Rose  is  over  near  the  house.  The  old  woman  wants 
'em  near.  See  the  darned  things  !  "  he  pursued,  rapping 
savagely  on  the  edge  of  the  pan  to  rattle  the  bugs  back, 

"  How  do  yeh  kill  'em  —  scald  'em  ?  " 

u  Mostly.     Sometimes  1  —  " 

"  Good  piece  of  oats,"  yawned  the  stranger,  listessly. 

"  That's  barley." 

"  So  'tis.     Didn't  notice." 

Uncle  Ethan  was  wondering  who  the  man  was.  He 
had  some  pots  of  black  paint  in  the  wagon,  and  two  or 
three  square  boxes. 

"  What  do  yeh  think  o'  Cleveland's  chances  for  a 
second  term  ?  "  continued  the  man,  as  if  they  had  been 
talking  politics  all  the  while. 

Uncle  Ripley  scratched  his  head.  "  Waal  —  I 
dunno  —  bein'  a  Republican  —  I  think  —  " 

"  That's  so  —  it's  a  purty  scaly  outlook.  I  don't, 
believe  in  second  terms  myself,"  the  man  hastened  to 
say. 

"  Is  that  your  new  barn  acrosst  there  ? "  he  asked, 
pointing  with  his  whip. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  replied  the  old  man,  proudly.     After 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  285 

years  of  planning  and  hard  work  he  had  managed  to 
erect  a  little  wooden  barn,  costing  possibly  three  hun 
dred  dollars.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen  he  took  a  childish 
pride  in  the  fact  of  its  newness. 

The  stranger  mused.  "A  lovely  place  for  a  sign," 
he  said,  as  his  eyes  wandered  across  its  shining  yellow 
broadside. 

Uncle  Ethan  stared,  unmindful  of  the  bugs  crawling 
over  the  edge  of  his  pan.  His  interest  in  the  pots  of 
paint  deepened. 

"  Couldn't  think  o*  lettin'  me  paint  a  sign  on  that 
barn  ?  "  the  stranger  continued,  putting  his  locked  hands 
around  one  knee,  and  gazing  away  across  the  pig-pen  at 
the  building. 

"  What  kind  of  a  sign  ?  Gol  darn  your  skins  !  " 
Uncle  Ethan  pounded  the  pan  with  his  paddle  and 
scraped  two  or  three  crawling  abominations  off  his 
leathery  wrist. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  man  in  the  wagon 
seemed  unusually  loath  to  attend  to  business.  The  tired 
ponies  slept  in  the  shade  of  the  lombardies.  The  plain 
was  draped  in  a  warm  mist,  and  shadowed  by  vast, 
vaguely  defined  masses  of  clouds  —  a  lazy  June  day. 

"  Dodd's  Family  Bitters,"  said  the  man,  waking  out 
of  his  abstraction  with  a  start,  and  resuming  his  work 
ing  manner.  "  The  best  bitter  in  the  market."  He 
alluded  to  it  in  the  singular.  "  Like  to  look  at  it  ?  No 
trouble  to  show  goods,  as  the  fellah  says,"  he  went  on 
hastily,  seeing  Uncle  Ethan's  hesitation. 

He  produced  a  large  bottle  of  triangular  shape,  like  a 


286  Main -Travelled  Roads 

bottle  for  pickled  onions.  It  had  a  red  seal  on  top,  and 
a  strenuous  caution  in  red  letters  on  the  neck,  "  None 
genuine  unless  '  Dodd's  Family  Bitters '  is  blown  in  the 
bottom." 

"  Here's  what  it  cures,"  pursued  the  agent,  pointing 
at  the  side,  where,  in  an  inverted  pyramid,  the  names 
of  several  hundred  diseases  were  arranged,  running  from 
"  gout "  to  "  pulmonary  complaints,"  etc. 

"I  gol !  she  cuts  a  wide  swath,  don't  she ?  "  exclaimed 
Uncle  Ethan,  profoundly  impressed  with  the  list. 

"They  ain't  no  better  bitter  in  the  world,"  said  the 
agent,  with  a  conclusive  inflection. 

"  What's  its  speshy-rf/ity  ?  Most  of  'em  have  some 
speshy-d7ity." 

"  Well  —  summer  complaints  —  an'  —  an'  —  spring 
an'  fall  troubles  —  tones  ye  up,  sort  of." 

Uncle  Ethan's  forgotten  pan  was  empty  of  his 
gathered  bugs.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  this  man. 
There  was  something  he  liked  about  him. 

"  What  does  it  sell  fur  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  Same  price  as  them  cheap  medicines  —  dollar  a 
bottle  —  big  bottles,  too.  Want  one  ?  " 

"Wai,  mother  ain't  to  home,  an'  I  don't  know  as 
she'd  like  this  kind.  We  ain't  been  sick  f'r  years. 
Still,  they's  no  tellin',"  he  added,  seeing  the  answer  to 
his  objection  in  the  agent's  eyes.  "  Times  is  purty  close 
too,  with  us,  y'  see;  we've  jest  built  that  stable  —  " 

"Say  I'll  tell  yeh  what  I'll  do,"  said  the  stranger, 
waking  up  and  speaking  in  a  warmly  generous  tone. 
"  I'll  give  you  ten  bottles  of  the  bitter  if  you'll  let  me 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  287 

paint  a  sign  on  that  barn.  It  won't  hurt  the  barn  a 
bit,  and  if  you  want  'o  you  can  paint  it  out  a  year  from 
date.  Come,  what  d'ye  say  ? " 

"  I  guess  I  hadn't  better." 

The  agent  thought  that  Uncle  Ethan  was  after 
more  pay,  but  in  reality  he  was  thinking  of  what  his 
little  old  wife  would  say. 

u  It  simply  puts  a  family  bitter  in  your  home  that 
may  save  you  fifty  dollars  this  comin'  fall.  You  can't 
tell." 

Just  what  the  man  said  after  that  Uncle  Ethan 
didn't  follow.  His  voice  had  a  confidential  purring 
sound  as  he  stretched  across  the  wagon-seat  and  talked 
on,  eyes  half  shut.  He  straightened  up  at  last,  and 
concluded  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  carried  his  point  : 

"  So  !  If  you  didn't  want  to  use  the  whole  twenty- 
five  bottles  y'rself,  why !  sell  it  to  your  neighbors. 
You  can  get  twenty  dollars  out  of  it  easy,  and  still  have 
five  bottles  of  the  best  family  bitter  that  ever  went  into 
a  bottle." 

It  was  the  thought  of  this  opportunity  to  get  a 
buffalo-skin  coat  that  consoled  Uncle  Ethan  as  he  saw 
the  hideous  black  letters  appearing  under  the  agent's 
lazy  brush. 

It  was  the  hot  side  of  the  barn,  and  painting  was  no 
light  work.  The  agent  was  forced  to  mop  his  fore 
head  with  his  sleeve. 

"  Say,  hain't  got  a  cooky  or  anything,  and  a  cup  o' 
milk,  handy  ?  "  he  said  at  the  end  of  the  first  enormous 
word,  which  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  barn, 


288  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Uncle  Ethan  got  him  the  milk  and  cooky,  which  he 
ate  with  an  exaggeratedly  dainty  action  of  his  fingers, 
seated  meanwhile  on  the  staging  which  Uncle  Ripley 
had  helped  him  to  build.  This  lunch  infused  new 
energy  into  him,  and  in  a  short  time  "  DODD'S  FAMILY 
BITTERS,  Best  in  the  Market,"  disfigured  the  sweet- 
smelling  pine  boards. 

Ethan  was  eating  his  self-obtained  supper  of  bread 
and  milk  when  his  wife  came  home. 

"  Who's  been  a-paintin'  on  that  barn  ?  "  she  de 
manded,  her  bead-like  eyes  flashing,  her  withered  little 
face  set  in  an  ominous  frown.  "  Ethan  Ripley,  what 
you  been  doin'  ?  " 

u  Nawthin',"  he  replied  feebly. 

u  Who  painted  that  sign  on  there  ?  " 

"  A  man  come  along  an'  he  wanted  to  paint  that  on 
there,  and  I  let  'im ;  and  it's  my  barn  anyway.  I  guess 
I  can  do  what  I'm  a  min'  to  with  it,"  he  ended,  defi 
antly  ;  but  his  eyes  wavered. 

Mrs.  Ripley  ignored  the  defiance.  "  What  under  the 
sun  p'sessed  you  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that,  Ethan  Ripley  ? 
I  declare  I  don't  see  !  You  git  fooler  an'  fooler  ev'ry 
day  you  live,  I  do  believe." 

Uncle  Ethan  attempted  a  defence. 

"Wai,  he  paid  me  twenty-five  dollars  f'r  it,  any 
way." 

"  Did  'e  ?  "     She  was  visibly  affected  by  this  news. 

"  Wai,  anyhow,  it  amounts  to  that  5  he  give  me 
twenty-five  bottles  —  " 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  289 

Mrs.  Ripley  sank  back  in  her  chair.  "  Wai,  I  swan 
to  Bungay  !  Ethan  Ripley  —  wal,  you  beat  all  I  ever 
see  !  "  she  added,  in  despair  of  expression.  u  I  thought 
you  had  some  sense  left ;  but  you  hain't,  not  one  blessed 
scimpton.  Where  is  the  stuff  ?" 

tc  Down  cellar,  an'  you  needn't  take  on  no  airs,  ol' 
woman.  I've  known  you  to  buy  things  you  didn't 
need  time  an'  time  an'  agin  —  tins  an'  things,  an'  I 
guess  you  wish  you  had  back  that  ten  dollars  you  paid 
for  that  illustrated  Bible." 

"  Go  'long  an'  bring  that  stuff  up  here.  I  never  see 
such  a  man  in  my  life.  It's  a  wonder  he  didn't  do  it 
f'r  two  bottles."  She  glared  out  at  the  sign,  which 
faced  directly  upon  the  kitchen  window. 

Uncle  Ethan  tugged  the  two  cases  up  and  set  them 
down  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Ripley  opened 
a  bottle  and  smelled  of  it  like  a  cautious  cat. 

"Ugh!  Merciful  sakes,  what  stuff!  It  ain't  fit 
f'r  a  hog  to  take.  What'd  you  think  you  was  goin' 
to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  asked  in  poignant  disgust. 

u  I  expected  to  take  it  —  if  I  was  sick.  Whaddy  ye 
s'pose  ? "  He  defiantly  stood  his  ground,  towering 
above  her  like  a  leaning  tower. 

"  The  hull  cartload  of  it  ?  " 

"No.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  part  of  it  an'  git  me  an 
overcoat  —  " 

"  Sell  it !  "  she  shouted.  "  Nobuddy'll  buy  that  sick'- 
nin'  stuff  but  an  old  numskull  like  you.  Take  that  slop 
out  o'  the  house  this  minute  !  Take  it  right  down  to 
the  sink-hole  an'  smash  every  bottle  on  the  stones." 


290  Main -Travelled  Roads 

Uncle  Ethan  and  the  cases  of  medicine  disappeared, 
and  the  old  woman  addressed  her  concluding  remarks  to 
little  Tewksbury,  her  grandson,  who  stood  timidly  on 
one  leg  in  the  doorway,  like  an  intruding  pullet. 

"  Everything  around  this  place  'ud  go  to  rack  an* 
ruin  if  I  didn't  keep  a  watch  on  that  soft-pated  old 
dummy.  I  thought  that  lightnin'-rod  man  had  give  him 
a  lesson  he'd  remember ;  but  no,  he  must  go  an'  make  a 
reg'lar  —  " 

She  subsided  in  a  tumult  of  banging  pans,  which 
helped  her  out  in  the  matter  of  expression  and  reduced 
her  to  a  grim  sort  of  quiet.  Uncle  Ethan  went  about 
the  house  like  a  convict  on  shipboard.  Once  she  caught 
him  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  feel  proud  o'  that." 

Uncle  Ethan  had  never  been  sick  a  day  in  his  life. 
He  was  bent  and  bruised  with  never-ending  toil,  but  he 
had  nothing  especial  the  matter  with  him. 

He  did  not  smash  the  medicine,  as  Mrs.  Ripley  com 
manded,  because  he  had  determined  to  sell  it.  The 
next  Sunday  morning,  after  his  chores  were  done,  he 
put  on  his  best  coat  of  faded  diagonal,  and  was  brush 
ing  his  hair  into  a  ridge  across  the  centre  of  his  high, 
narrow  head,  when  Mrs.  Ripley  came  in  from  feeding 
the  calves. 

"  Where  you  goin'  now  ?  " 

"  None  o'  your  business,"  he  replied.  "  It's  darn 
funny  if  I  can't  stir  without  you  wantin'  to  know  all 
about  it.  Where's  Tukey  ?  " 

"Feedin'    the    chickens.     You    ain't    goin'    to    take 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  291 

him  off  this  mornin'   now!       I  don't  care  where  you 

go-" 

"Who's  a-goin'  to  take  him  off?  I  ain't  said  nothin' 
about  takin'  him  off." 

"  Wai,  take  y'rself  off,  an'  if  f  ain't  here  f'r  dinner, 
I  ain't  goin'  to  get  no  supper." 

Ripley  took  a  water-pail  and  put  four  bottles  of  "  the 
bitter  "  into  it,  and  trudged  away  up  the  road  with  it  in 
a  pleasant  glow  of  hope.  All  nature  seemed  to  declare 
the  day  a  time  of  rest,  and  invited  men  to  disassociate 
ideas  of  toil  from  the  rustling  green  wheat,  shining  grass, 
and  tossing  blooms.  Something  of  the  sweetness  and 
buoyancy  of  all  nature  permeated  the  old  man's  work- 
calloused  body,  and  he  whistled  little  snatches  of  the 
dance  tunes  he  played  on  his  fiddle. 

But  he  found  neighbor  Johnson  to  be  supplied  with 
another  variety  of  bitter,  which  was  all  he  needed  for 
the  present.  He  qualified  his  refusal  to  buy  with  a  cor 
dial  invitation  to  go  out  and  see  his  shoats,  in  which  he 
took  infinite  pride.  But  Uncle  Ripley  said  :  "  I  guess 
I'll  haf  t'  be  goin';  I  want  'o  git  up  to  Jennings'  before 
dinner." 

He  couldn't  help  feeling  a  little  depressed  when  he 
found  Jennings  away.  The  next  house  along  the  pleas 
ant  lane  was  inhabited  by  a  "  newcomer."  He  was 
sitting  on  the  horse-trough,  holding  a  horse's  halter, 
while  his  hired  man  dashed  cold  water  upon  the  galled 
spot  on  the  animal's  shoulder. 

After  some  preliminary  talk  Ripley  presented  his 
medicine. 


292  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Hell,  no  !  What  do  I  want  of  such  stuff?  When 
they's  anything  the  matter  with  me,  I  take  a  lunkin'  oP 
swig  of  popple-bark  and  bourbon  !  That  fixes  me." 

Uncle  Ethan  moved  off  up  the  lane.  He  hardly  felt 
like  whistling  now.  At  the  next  house  he  set  his  pail 
down  in  the  weeds  beside  the  fence,  and  went  in  with 
out  it.  Doudney  came  to  the  door  in  his  bare  feet, 
buttoning  his  suspenders  over  a  clean  boiled  shirt.  He 
was  dressing  to  go  out. 

"  Hello,  Ripley.  I  was  just  goin'  down  your  way. 
Jest  wait  a  minute,  an'  I'll  be  out." 

When  he  came  out,  fully  dressed,  Uncle  Ethan  grap 
pled  him. 

"  Say,  what  d'  you  think  o'  paytent  med — " 

"  Some  of  'em  are  boss.  But  y'  want  'o  know  what 
y're  gittin'." 

"What  d'  ye  think  o'  Dodd's  — " 

"  Best  in  the  market." 

Uncle  Ethan  straightened  up  and  his  face  lighted, 
Doudney  went  on  : 

"Yes,  sir;  best  bitter  that  ever  went  into  a  bottle.  I 
know,  I've  tried  it.  I  don't  go  much  on  patent  medi 
cines,  but  when  I  get  a  good  —  " 

"  Don't  want  'o  buy  a  bottle  ?  " 

Doudney  turned  and  faced  him. 

"  Buy !  No.  I've  got  nineteen  bottles  I  want  'o 
sell"  Ripley  glanced  up  at  Doudney's  new  granary  and 
there  read  "  Dodd's  Family  Bitters."  He  was  stricken 
dumb.  Doudney  saw  it  all,  and  roared. 

"  Wai,  that's  a  good   one !     We   two  tryin*  to  sell 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  293 

each  other  bitters.  Ho  —  ho  —  ho  —  har,  whoop !  wal, 
this  is  rich  !  How  many  bottles  did  you  git  ? " 

"  None  o'  your  business,"  said  Uncle  Ethan,  as  he 
turned  and  made  off,  while  Doudney  screamed  with 
merriment. 

On  his  way  home  Uncle  Ethan  grew  ashamed  of  his 
burden.  Doudney  had  canvassed  the  whole  neighbor 
hood,  and  he  practically  gave  up  the  struggle.  Every 
body  he  met  seemed  determined  to  find  out  what  he  had 
been  doing,  and  at  last  he  began  lying  about  it. 

"  Hello,  Uncle  Ripley,  what  y'  got  there  in  that 
pail  ? " 

u  Goose  eggs  f 'r  settin'." 

He  disposed  of  one  bottle  to  old  Gus  Peterson.  Gus 
never  paid  his  debts,  and  he  would  only  promise  fifty 
cents  "  on  tick "  for  the  bottle,  and  yet  so  desperate 
was  Ripley  that  this  questionable  sale  cheered  him  up 
not  a  little. 

As  he  came  down  the  road,  tired,  dusty,  and  hungry, 
he  climbed  over  the  fence  in  order  to  avoid  seeing  that 
sign  on  the  barn,  and  slunk  into  the  house  without 
looking  back. 

He  couldn't  have  felt  meaner  about  it  if  he  had 
allowed  a  Democratic  poster  to  be  pasted  there. 

The  evening  passed  in  grim  silence,  and  in  sleep  he 
saw  that  sign  wriggling  across  the  side  of  the  barn  like 
boa-constrictors  hung  on  rails.  He  tried  to  paint  them 
out,  but  every  time  he  tried  it  the  man  seemed  to  come 
back  with  a  sheriff,  and  savagely  warned  him  to  let  it 
stay  till  the  year  was  up.  In  some  mysterious  way  the 


294  Main -Travelled  Roads 

agent  seemed  to  know  every  time  he  brought  out  the 
paint-pot,  and  he  was  no  longer  the  pleasant-voiced  in 
dividual  who  drove  the  calico  ponies. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  yard  next  morning  that 
abominable,  sickening,  scrawling  advertisement  was  the 
first  thing  that  claimed  his  glance  —  it  blotted  out  the 
beauty  of  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Ripley  came  to  the  window,  buttoning  her  dress 
at  the  throat,  a  wisp  of  her  hair  sticking  assertively 
from  the  little  knob  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

"  Lovely,  ain't  it !  An'  7've  got  to  see  it  all  day 
long.  I  can't  look  out  the  winder  but  that  thing's 
right  in  my  face."  It  seemed  to  make  her  savage.  She 
hadn't  been  in  such  a  temper  since  her  visit  to  New 
York.  "  I  hope  you  feel  satisfied  with  it." 

Ripley  walked  off  to  the  barn.  His  pride  in  its  clean 
sweet  newness  was  gone.  He  slyly  tried  the  paint  to 
see  if  it  couldn't  be  scraped  off,  but  it  was  dried  in  thor 
oughly.  Whereas  before  he  had  taken  delight  in  hav 
ing  his  neighbors  turn  and  look  at  the  building,  now  he 
kept  out  of  sight  whenever  he  saw  a  team  coming.  He 
hoed  corn  away  in  the  back  of  the  field,  when  he  should 
have  been  bugging  potatoes  by  the  roadside. 

Mrs.  Ripley  was  in  a  frightful  mood  about  it,  but  she 
held  herself  in  check  for  several  days.  At  last  she 
burst  forth : 

"  Ethan  Ripley,  I  can't  stand  that  thing  any  longer, 
and  I  ain't  goin'  to,  that's  all !  You've  got  to  go  and 
paint  that  thing  out,  or  I  will,  I'm  just  about  crazy 
with  it." 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  295 

u  But,  mother,  I  promised  —  " 

u  I  don't  care  what  you  promised,  it's  got  to  be 
painted  out.  I've  got  the  nightmare  now,  seein'  it.  I'm 
goin'  to  send  f 'r  a  pail  o'  red  paint,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
paint  that  out  if  it  takes  the  last  breath  I've  got  to  do 
it." 

"  I'll  tend  to  it,  mother,  if  you  won't  hurry 
me  —  " 

"  I  can't  stand  it  another  day.  It  makes  me  boil 
every  time  I  look  out  the  winder." 

Uncle  Ethan  hitched  up  his  team  and  drove  gloomily 
off  to  town,  where  he  tried  to  find  the  agent.  He  lived 
in  some  other  part  of  the  county,  however,  and  so  the 
old  man  gave  up  and  bought  a  pot  of  red  paint,  not 
daring  to  go  back  to  his  desperate  wife  without  it. 

"  Goin'  to  paint  y'r  new  barn  ?  "  inquired  the  mer 
chant,  with  friendly  interest. 

Uncle  Ethan  turned  with  guilty  sharpness ;  but  the 
merchant's  face  was  grave  and  kindly. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I'd  tech  it  up  a  little  —  don't  cost 
much." 

"  It  pays  —  always,"  the  merchant  said  emphatically. 

u  Will  it  — stick  jest  as  well  put  on  evenings  ?  "  in 
quired  Uncle  Ethan,  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes  —  won't  make  any  difference.  Why  ?  Ain't 
goin'  to  have  —  " 

"  Wai,  —  I  kind  o'  thought  I'd  do  it  odd  times  night 
an'  mornin*  —  kind  o'  odd  times  —  " 

He  seemed  oddly  confused  about  it,  and  the  merchant 
looked  after  him  anxiously  as  he  drove  away. 


296  Main -Travelled  Roads 

After  supper  that  night  he  went  out  to  the  barn,  and 
Mrs.  Ripley  heard  him  sawing  and  hammering.  Then 
the  noise  ceased,  and  he  came  in  and  sat  down  in  his 
usual  place. 

"  What  y'  ben  makin'  ?  "  she  inquired.  Tewksbury 
had  gone  to  bed.  She  sat  darning  a  stocking. 

"  I  jest  thought  I'd  git  the  stagin'  ready  f  'r  paintin'," 
he  said>  evasively. 

"  Wai !  Pll  be  glad  when  it's  covered  up."  When 
she  got  ready  for  bed,  he  was  still  seated  in  his  chair, 
and  after  she  had  dozed  off  two  or  three  times  she  began 
to  wonder  why  he  didn't  come.  When  the  clock  struck 
ten,  and  she  realized  that  he  had  not  stirred,  she  began 
to  get  impatient.  "  Come,  are  y*  goin'  to  sit  there  all 
night  ? "  There  was  no  reply.  She  rose  up  in  bed 
and  looked  about  the  room.  The  broad  moon  flooded 
it  with  light,  so  that  she  could  see  he  was  not  asleep  in 
his  chair,  as  she  had  supposed.  There  was  something 
ominous  in  his  disappearance. 

"  Ethan  !  Ethan  Ripley,  where  are  yeh  !  "  There 
was  no  reply  to  her  sharp  call.  She  rose  and  dis 
tractedly  looked  about  among  the  furniture,  as  if  he 
might  somehow  be  a  cat  and  be  hiding  in  a  corner 
somewhere.  Then  she  went  upstairs  where  the  boy 
slept,  her  hard  little  heels  making  a  curious  tunking 
noise  on  the  bare  boards.  The  moon  fell  across  the 
sleeping  boy  like  a  robe  of  silver.  He  was  alone. 

She  began  to  be  alarmed.  Her  eyes  widened  in  fear. 
All  sorts  of  vague  horrors  sprang  unbidden  into  her 
brain.  She  still  had  the  mist  of  sleep  in  her  brain. 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  297 

She  hurried  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  fragrant 
night.  The  katydids  were  singing  in  infinite  peace 
under  the  solemn  splendor  of  the  moon.  The  cattle 
sniffed  and  sighed,  jangling  their  bells  now  and  then, 
and  the  chickens  in  the  coop  stirred  uneasily  as  if  over 
heated.  The  old  woman  stood  there  in  her  bare  feet 
and  long  nightgown,  horror-stricken.  The  ghastly 
story  of  a  man  who  had  hung  himself  in  his  barn 
because  his  wife  deserted  him  came  into  her  mind,  and 
stayed  there  with  frightful  persistency.  Her  throat 
filled  chokingly. 

She  felt  a  wild  rush  of  loneliness.  She  had  a  sudden 
realization  of  how  dear  that  gaunt  old  figure  was,  with 
its  grizzled  face  and  ready  smile.  Her  breath  came 
quick  and  quicker,  and  she  was  at  the  point  of  bursting 
into  a  wild  cry  to  Tewksbury,  when  she  heard  a  strange 
noise.  It  came  from  the  barn,  a  creaking  noise.  She 
looked  that  way,  and  saw  in  the  shadowed  side  a  deeper 
shadow  moving  to  and  fro.  A  revulsion  to  astonish 
ment  and  anger  took  place  in  her. 

u  Land  o'  Bungay  !  If  he  ain't  paintin'  that  barn, 
like  a  perfect  old  idiot,  in  the  night." 

Uncle  Ethan,  working  desperately,  did  not  hear  her 
feet  pattering  down  the  path,  and  was  startled  by  her 
shrill  voice. 

"  Well,  Ethan  Ripley,  whaddy  y'  think  you're  doin' 
now  ? " 

He  made  two  or  three  slapping  passes  with  the  brush, 
and  then  snapped  out,  u  I'm  a-paintin'  this  barn  — 
whaddy  ye  s'pose  ?  If  ye  had  eyes  y'  wouldn't  ask." 


298  Main -Travelled  Roads 

"  Well,  you  come  right  straight  to  bed.  What  d'you 
mean  by  actin'  so  ?  " 

u  You  go  back  into  the  house  an'  let  me  be.  I  know 
what  Fm  a-doin'.  You've  pestered  me  about  this  sign 
jest  about  enough."  He  dabbed  his  brush  to  and  fro 
as  he  spoke.  His  gaunt  figure  towered  above  her  in 
shadow.  His  slapping  brush  had  a  vicious  sound. 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time.  At  length  she  said 
more  gently,  "  Ain't  you  comin'  in  ?  " 

"  No  —  not  till  I  get  a-ready.  You  go  'long  an'  tend 
to  y'r  own  business.  Don't  stan'  there  an'  ketch  cold." 

She  moved  off  slowly  toward  the  house.  His  shout 
subdued  her.  Working  alone  out  there  had  rendered 
him  savage ;  he  was  not  to  be  pushed  any  further.  She 
knew  by  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  must  now  be 
respected.  She  slipped  on  her  shoes  and  a  shawl,  and 
came  back  where  he  was  working,  and  took  a  seat  on  a 
saw-horse. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  set  right  here  till  you  come  in,  Ethan 
Ripley,"  she  said,  in  a  firm  voice,  but  gentler  than  usual. 

"  Wai,  you'll  set  a  good  while,"  was  his  ungracious 
reply,  but  each  felt  a  furtive  tenderness  for  the  other. 
He  worked  on  in  silence.  The  boards  creaked  heavily 
as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the  slapping  sound  of  the 
paint-brush  sounded  loud  in  the  sweet  harmony  of 
the  night.  The  majestic  moon  swung  slowly  round  the 
corner  of  the  barn,  and  fell  upon  the  old  man's  grizzled 
head  and  bent  shoulders.  The  horses  inside  could  be 
heard  stamping  the  mosquitoes  away,  and  chewing  their 
hay  in  pleasant  chorus. 


Uncle  Ethan  Ripley  299 

The  little  figure  seated  on  the  saw-horse  drew  the 
shawl  closer  about  her  thin  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were 
in  shadow,  and  her  hands  were  wrapped  in  her  shawl. 
At  last  she  spoke  in  a  curious  tone. 

"  Wai,  I  don't  know  as  you  was  so  very  much  to 
blame.  I  didn't  want  that  Bible  myself — I  held  out  I 
did,  but  I  didn't." 

Ethan  worked  on  until  the  full  meaning  of  this  un 
precedented  surrender  penetrated  his  head,  and  then  he 
threw  down  his  brush. 

u  Wai,  I  guess  I'll  let  'er  go  at  that.  I've  covered 
up  the  most  of  it,  anyhow.  Guess  we  better  go  in." 


GOD'S  RAVENS 


GOD'S   RAVENS 
I 

CHICAGO  has  three  winds  that  blow  upon  it.  One 
comes  from  the  east,  and  the  mind  goes  out  to  the  cold 
gray-blue  lake.  One  from  the  north,  and  men  think  of 
illimitable  spaces  of  pine-lands  and  maple-clad  ridges 
which  lead  to  the  unknown  deeps  of  the  arctic  woods. 

But  the  third  is  the  west  or  southwest  wind,  dry, 
magnetic,  full  of  smell  of  unmeasured  miles  of  grow 
ing  grain  in  summer,  or  ripening  corn  and  wheat  in  au 
tumn.  When  it  comes  in  winter  the  air  glitters  with 
incredible  brilliancy.  The  snow  of  the  country  dazzles 
and  flames  in  the  eyes;  deep-blue  shadows  everywhere 
stream  like  stains  of  ink.  Sleigh-bells  wrangle  from 
early  morning  till  late  at  night,  and  every  step  is  quick 
and  alert.  In  the  city,  smoke  dims  its  clarity,  but  it  is 
welcome. 

But  its  greatest  moment  of  domination  is  spring. 
The  bitter  gray  wind  of  the  east  has  held  unchecked 
rule  for  days,  giving  place  to  its  brother  the  north  wind 
only  at  intervals,  till  some  day  in  March  the  wind  of  the 
southwest  begins  to  blow.  Then  the  eaves  begin  to 
drip.  Here  and  there  a  fowl  (in  a  house  that  is  really  a 
prison)  begins  to  sing  the  song  it  sang  on  the  farm,  and 
toward  noon  its  song  becomes  a  chant  of  articulate  joy. 

Then  the  poor  crawl  out  of  their  reeking  hovels  on  the 


3°4 


Main-Travelled   Roads 


south  and  west  sides  to  stand  in  the  sun — the  blessed 
sun — and  felicitate  themselves  on  being  alive.  Win 
dows  of  sick-rooms  are  opened,  the  merry  small  boy  goes 
to  school  without  his  tippet,  and  men  lay  off  their  long 
ulsters  for  their  beaver  coats.  Caps  give  place  to  hats, 
and  men  and  women  pause  to  chat  when  they  meet 
each  other  on  the  street.  The  open  door  is  the  sign  of 
the  great  change  of  wind. 

There  are  imaginative  souls  who  are  stirred  yet 
deeper  by  this  wind — men  like  Robert  Bloom,  to  whom 
come  vague  and  very  sweet  reminiscences  of  farm  life 
when  the  snow  is  melting  and  the  dry  ground  begins  to 
appear.  To  these  people  the  wind  comes  from  the 
wide  unending  spaces  of  the  prairie  west.  They  can 
smell  the  strange  thrilling  odor  of  newly  uncovered  sod 
and  moist  brown  ploughed  lands.  To  them  it  is  like  the 
opening  door  of  a  prison. 

Robert  had  crawled  down-town  and  up  to  his  office 
high  in  the  Star  block  after  a  month's  sickness.  He  had 
resolutely  pulled  a  pad  of  paper  under  his  hand  to 
write,  but  the  window  was  open  and  that  wind  coming 
in,  and  he  could  not  write — he  could  only  dream. 

His  brown  hair  fell  over  the  thin  white  hand  which 
propped  his  head.  His  face  was  like  ivory  with  dull 
yellowish  stains  in  it.  His  eyes  did  not  see  the  moun 
tainous  roofs  humped  and  piled  into  vast  masses  of 
brick  and  stone,  crossed  and  riven  by  streets,  and 
swept  by  masses  of  gray- white  vapor;  they  saw  a  little 
valley  circled  by  low-wooded  bluffs — his  native  town 
in  Wisconsin. 

As  his  weakness  grew  his  ambition  fell  away,  and  his 


God's    Ravens  305 

heart  turned  back  to  nature  and  to  the  things  he  had 
known  in  his  youth,  to  the  kindly  people  of  the  olden 
time.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  spirit  of  the 
country  might  have  changed. 

Sitting  thus,  he  had  a  mighty  longing  come  upon 
him  to  give  up  the  struggle,  to  go  back  to  the  simplest 
life  with  his  wife  and  two  boys.  Why  should  he  tread 
in  the  mill,  when  every  day  was  taking  the  life-blood 
out  of  his  heart? 

Slowly  his  longing  took  resolution.  At  last  he  drew 
his  desk  down,  and  as  the  lock  clicked  it  seemed  like  the 
shutting  of  a  prison  gate  behind  him. 

At  the  elevator  door  he  met  a  fellow-editor.  "Hello, 
Bloom!  Didn't  know  you  were  down  to-day." 

"Pm  only  trying  it.  I'm  going  to  take  a  vacation 
for  a  while." 

"That's  right,  man.     You  look  like  a  ghost." 

He  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  him  he  never  expected 
to  work  there  again.  His  step  on  the  way  home  was 
firmer  than  ii  had  been  for  weeks.  In  his  white  face 
his  wife  saw  some  subtle  change. 

"What  is  it,  Robert?" 

"Mate,  let's  give  it  up." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  struggle  is  too  hard.  I  can't  stand  it.  I'm 
hungry  for  the  country  again.  Let's  get  out  of  this." 

"Where'llwego?" 

"Back  to  my  native  town — up  among  the  Wisconsin 
hills  and  coulies.  Go  anywhere,  so  that  we  escape  this 
pressure — it's  killing  me.  Let's  go  to  Bluff  Siding  for  a 
year.  It  will  do  me  good — may  bring  me  back  to  life. 


306  Main-Travelled    Roads 

I  can  do  enough  special  work  to  pay  our  grocery  bill; 
and  the  Merrill  place — so  Jack  tells  me — is  empty. 
We  can  get  it  for  seventy-five  dollars  for  a  year.  We 
can  pull  through  some  way." 

"Very  well,  Robert." 

"  I  must  have  rest.  All  the  bounce  has  gone'out  of  me, 
Mate,"  he  said,  with  sad  lines  in  his  face.  "Any  extra 
work  here  is  out  of  the  question.  I  can  only  shamble 
around — an  excuse  for  a  man." 

The  wife  had  ceased  to  smile.  Her  strenuous  cheer 
fulness  could  not  hold  before  his  tragically  drawn  and 
bloodless  face. 

"I'll  go  wherever  you  think  best,  Robert.  It  will  be 
just  as  well  for  the  boys.  1  suppose  there  is  a  school 
there?" 

"Oh  yes.  At  any  rate,  they  can  get  a  year's  school 
ing  in  nature." 

"Well — no  matter,  Robert;  you  are  the  one  to  be 
considered."  She  had  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  of 
the  average  woman.  She  fancied  herself  hopelessly  his 
inferior. 

They  had  dwelt  so  long  on  the  crumbling  edge  of 
poverty  that  they  were  hardened  to  its  threat,  and  yet 
the  failure  of  Robert's  health  had  been  of  the  sort  which 
terrifies.  It  was  a  slow  but  steady  sinking  of  vital 
force.  It  had  its  ups  and  downs,  but  it  was  a  down 
ward  trail,  always  downward.  The  time  for  self-de 
ception  had  passed. 

His  paper  paid  him  a  meagre  salary,  for  his  work 
was  prized  only  by  the  more  thoughtful  readers  of  the 
Star.  In  addition  to  his  regular  work  he  occasionally 


God's    Ravens  307 

hazarded  a  story  for  the  juvenile  magazines  of  the 
East.  In  this  way  he  turned  the  antics  of  his  growing 
boys  to  account,  as  he  often  said  to  his  wife. 

He  had  also  passed  the  preliminary  stages  of  literary 
success  by  getting  a  couple  of  stories  accepted  by  an 
Eastern  magazine,  and  he  still  confidently  looked 
forward  to  seeing  them  printed. 

His  wife,  a  sturdy,  practical  little  body,  did  her  part 
in  the  bitter  struggle  by  keeping  their  little  home  one 
of  the  most  attractive  on  the  West  Side,  the  North 
Side  being  altogether  too  high  for  them. 

In  addition,  her  sorely  pressed  brain  sought  out  other 
ways  of  helping.  She  wrote  out  all  her  husband's 
stories  on  the  typewriter,  and  secretly  she  had  tried 
composing  others  herself,  the  results  being  queer  dry 
little  chronicles  of  the  doings  of  men  and  women,  strung 
together  without  a  touch  of  literary  grace. 

She  proposed  taking  a  large  house  and  re-renting 
rooms,  but  Robert  would  not  hear  to  it.  "As  long  as  I 
can  crawl  about  we'll  leave  that  to  others." 

In  the  month  of  preparation  which  followed  he  talked 
a  great  deal  about  their  venture. 

"I  want  to  get  there,"  he  said,  "just  when  the 
leaves  are  coming  out  on  the  trees.  I  want  to  see  the 
cherry-trees  blossom  on  the  hillsides.  The  popple- 
trees  always  get  green  first." 

At  other  times  he  talked  about  the  people.  "It  will 
be  a  rest  just  to  get  back  among  people  who  aren't 
ready  to  tread  on  your  head  in  order  to  lift  themselves 
up.  I  believe  a  year  among  those  kind,  unhurried  people 
will  give  me  all  the  material  I'll  need  for  years.  I'll 


308  Main-Travelled   Roads 

write  a  series  of  studies  somewhat  like  JefFeries' — or 
Barrie's — only,  of  course,  I'll  be  original.  I'll  just  take 
his  plan  of  telling  about  the  people  I  meet  and  their 
queer  ways,  so  quaint  and  good." 

"I'm  tired  of  the  scramble,"  he  kept  breaking  out  of 
silence  to  say.  "I  don't  blame  the  boys,  but  it's  plain 
to  me  they  see  that  my  going  will  let  them  move  up  one. 
Mason  cynically  voiced  the  whole  thing  today:  'I 
can  say,  "sorry  to  see  you  go,  Bloom,"  because  your 
going  doesn't  concern  me.  I'm  not  in  line  of  succession, 
but  some  of  the  other  boys  don't  feel  so.  There's  no 
divinity  doth  hedge  an  editor;  nothing  but  law  prevents 
the  murder  of  those  above  by  those  below.'" 

"I  don't  like  Mr.  Mason  when  he  talks  like  that," 
said  the  wife. 

"Well— I  don't."  He  didn't  tell  her  what  Mason 
said  when  Robert  talked  about  the  good  simple  life  of 
the  people  in  Bluff  Siding: 

"Oh,  bosh,  Bloom!  You'll  find  the  struggle  of  the 
outside  world  reflected  in  your  little  town.  You'll  find 
men  and  women  just  as  hard  and  selfish  in  their  small 
way.  It  '11  be  harder  to  bear,  because  it  will  all  be  so 
petty  and  pusillanimous." 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  late  April  when  they  took  the 
train  out  of  the  great  grimy  terrible  city.  It  was  eight 
o'clock,  but  the  streets  were  muddy  and  wet,  a  cold 
east  wind  blowing  off  the  lake. 

With  clanging  bell  the  train  moved  away  piercing  the 
ragged  gray  formless  mob  of  houses  and  streets  (through 
which  railways  always  run  in  a  city).  Men  were  hur- 


God's    Ravens  309 

rying  to  work,  and  Robert  pitied  them,  poor  fellows,  con 
demned  to  do  that  thing  forever. 

In  an  hour  they  reached  the  prairies,  already  clothed 
upon  faintly  with  green  grass  and  tender  springing 
wheat.  The  purple-brown  squares  reserved  for  the 
corn  looked  deliciously  soft  and  warm  to  the  sick  man, 
and  he  longed  to  set  his  bare  feet  into  it. 

His  boys  were  wild  with  delight.  They  had  the 
natural  love  of  the  earth  still  in  them,  and  correspond 
ingly  cared  little  for  the  city.  They  raced  through  the 
cars  like  colts.  They  saw  everything.  Every  blossom 
ing  plant,  every  budding  tree,  was  precious  to  them  all. 

All  day  they  rode.  Toward  noon  they  left  the  sunny 
prairie-land  of  northern  Illinois  and  southern  Wisconsin, 
and  entered  upon  the  hill-land  of  Madison  and  beyond. 
As  they  went  north,  the  season  was  less  advanced,  but 
spring  was  in  the  fresh  wind  and  the  warm  sunshine. 

As  evening  drew  on,  the  hylas  began  to  peep  from  the 
pools,  and  their  chorus  deepened  as  they  came  on  tow 
ard  BlufF  Siding,  which  seemed  very  small,  very  squalid, 
and  uninteresting,  but  Robert  pointed  at  the  circling 
wine-colored  wall  of  hills  and  the  warm  sunset  sky. 

"We're  in  luck  to  find  a  hotel,"  said  Robert.  "They 
burn  down  every  three  months." 

They  were  met  by  a  middle-aged  man,  and  con 
ducted  across  the  road  to  a  hotel,  which  had  been  a 
roller-skating  rink  in  other  days,  and  was  not  prepos 
sessing.  However,  they  were  ushered  into  the  parlor, 
which  resembled  the  sitting-room  of  a  rather  ambitious 
village  home,  and  there  they  took  seats,  while  the  land 
lord  consulted  about  rooms. 


310  Main-Travelled   Roads 

The  wife's  heart  sank.  From  the  window  she  could 
see  several  of  the  low  houses,  and  far  off  just  the  hills 
which  seemed  to  make  the  town  so  very  small,  very 
lonely.  She  was  not  given  time  to  shed  tears.  The 
children  clamored  for  food,  tired  and  cross. 

Robert  went  out  into  the  office,  where  he  signed  his 
name  under  the  close  and  silent  scrutiny  of  a  half- 
dozen  roughly  clad  men,  who  sat  leaning  against  the 
wall.  They  were  merely  working-men  to  him,  but  in 
Mrs.  Bloom's  eyes  they  were  dangerous  people. 

The  landlord  looked  at  the  name  as  Robert  wrote. 
"Your  boxes  are  all  here,"  he  said. 

Robert  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise.  "What 
boxes?" 

"Your  household  goods.     They  came  in  on  No.  9." 

Robert  recovered  himself.  He  remembered  this  was 
a  village  where  everything  that  goes  on — everything — 
is  known. 

The  stairway  rose  picturesquely  out  of  the  office  to 
the  low  second  story,  and  up  these  stairs  they  tramped 
to  their  tiny  rooms  which  were  like  cells. 

"Oh,  mamma,  ain't  it  queer?"  cried  the  boys. 

"Supper  is  all  ready,"  the  landlord's  soft,  deep  voice 
announced  a  few  moments  later,  and  the  boys  responded 
with  whoops  of  hunger. 

They  were  met  by  the  close  scrutiny  of  every  boarder 
as  they  entered,  and  they  heard  also  the  muttered 
comments  and  explanations. 

"Family  to  take  the  Merrill  house." 

"He  looks  purty  well  flaxed  out,  don't  he?" 

They  were  agreeably  surprised  to  find  everything 


God's    Ravens  311 

neat  and  clean  and  wholesome.  The  bread  was  good 
and  the  butter  delicious.  Their  spirits  revived. 

"That  butter  tastes  like  old  times,"  said  Robert. 
"It's  fresh.  It's  really  butter." 

They  made  a  hearty  meal,  and  the  boys,  being  filled 
up,  grew  sleepy.  After  they  were  put  to  bed  Robert 
said,  "Now,  Mate,  let's  go  see  the  house." 

They  walked  out  arm  in  arm  like  lovers.  Her  sturdy 
form  steadied  him,  though  he  would  not  have  ac 
knowledged  it.  The  red  flush  was  not  yet  gone  from 
the  west,  and  the  hills  still  kept  a  splendid  tone  of 
purple-black.  It  was  very  clear,  the  stars  were  out, 
the  wind  deliciously  soft.  "Isn't  it  still?"  Robert 
almost  whispered. 

They  walked  on  under  the  budding  trees  up  the  hill, 
till  they  came  at  last  to  the  small  frame  house  set  under 
tali  maples  and  locust-trees,  just  showing  a  feathery 
fringe  of  foliage. 

"This  is  our  home,"  said  Robert. 

Mate  leaned  on  the  gate  in  silence.  Frogs  were 
peeping.  The  smell  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  There 
was  a  magnificent  repose  in  the  hour,  restful,  recreating, 
impressive. 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful,  Robert!     I  know'we  shall  like  it." 

"We  must  like  it,"  he  said. 

II 

First  contact  with  the  people  disappointed  Robert. 
In  the  work  of  moving  in  he  had  to  do  with  people  who 
work  at  day's  work,  and  the  fault  was  his  more  than 


312  Main-Travelled    Roads 

theirs.  He  forgot  that  they  did  not  consider  their 
work  degrading.  They  resented  his  bossing.  The 
drayman  grew  rebellious. 

"Look  a-here,  my  Christian  friend,  if  you'll  go  'long 
in  the  house  and  let  us  alone  it  '11  be  a  good  job.  We 
know  what  we're  about." 

This  was  not  pleasant,  and  he  did  not  perceive  the 
trouble.  In  the  same  way  he  got  foul  of  the  carpenter 
and  the  man  who  ploughed  his  garden.  Some  way  his 
tone  was  not  right.  His  voice  was  cold  and  distant. 
He  generally  found  that  the  men  knew  better  than  he 
what  was  to  be  done  and  how  to  do  it;  and  sometimes 
he  felt  like  apologizing,  but  their  attitude  had  changed 
till  apology  was  impossible. 

He  had  repelled  their  friendly  advances  because  he 
considered  them  (without  meaning  to  do  so)  as  work 
men,  and  not  as  neighbors.  They  reported,  therefore, 
that  he  was  cranky  and  rode  a  high  horse. 

"He  thinks  he's  a  little  tin  god  on  wheels,"  the 
drayman  said. 

"Oh,  he'll  get  over  that,"  said  McLane.  "I  knew 
the  boy's  folks  years  ago — tiptop  folks,  too.  He  ain't 
well,  and  that  makes  him  a  little  crusty." 

"That's  the  trouble — he  thinks  he's  an  upper  crust," 
said  Jim  Cullen,  the  drayman. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  they  were  settled,  and  nothing 
remained  to  do  but  plan  a  little  garden  and — get  well. 
The  boys,  with  their  unspoiled  natures,  were  able  to 
melt  into  the  ranks  of  the  village-boy  life  at  once, 
with  no  more  friction  than  was  indicated  by  a  couple  of 
rough-and-tumble  fights.  They  were  sturdy  fellows, 


God's    Ravens  313 

like  their  mother,  and  these  fights  gave  them  high 
rank. 

Robert  got  along  in  a  dull,  smooth  way  with  his 
neighbors.  He  was  too  formal  with  them.  He  met 
them  only  at  the  meat-shop  and  the  post-office.  They 
nodded  genially,  and  said,  "Got  settled  yet?"  And 
he  replied,  "Quite  comfortable,  thank  you."  They 
felt  his  coldness.  Conversation  halted  when  he  came 
near,  and  made  him  feel  that  he  was  the  subject  of 
their  talk.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  generally  was. 
He  was  a  source  of  great  speculation  with  them.  Some 
of  them  had  gone  so  far  as  to  bet  he  wouldn't  live  a  year. 
They  all  seemed  grotesque  to  him,  so  work-scarred  and 
bent  and  hairy.  Even  the  men  whose  names  he  had 
known  from  childhood  were  queer  to  him.  They 
seemed  shy  and  distant,  too,  not  like  his  ideas  of  them. 

To  Mate  they  were  almost  caricatures.  "What 
makes  them  look  so — so  'way  behind  the  times, 
Robert?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  they  are,"  said  Robert.  "Life  in 
these  coulies  goes  on  rather  slower  than  in  Chicago. 
Then  there  are  a  great  many  Welsh  and  Germans  and 
Norwegians,  living  'way  up  the  coulies,  and  they're 
the  ones  you  notice..  They're  not  all  so."  He  could 
be  generous  toward  them  in  general;  it  was  in  special 
cases  where  he  failed  to  know  them. 

They  had  been  there  nearly  two  weeks  without 
meeting  any  of  them  socially,  and  Robert  was  beginning 
to  change  his  opinion  about  them.  "They  let  us 
severely  alone,"  he  was  saying  one  night  to  his  wife. 

"It's  very  odd.     I  wonder  what  I'd  better  do,  Rob- 


314  Main-Travelled   Roads 

ert?  I  don't  know  the  etiquette  of  these  small  towns. 
I  never  lived  in  one  before,  you  know.  Whether  I 
ought  to  call  first — and,  good  gracious,  who'll  I  call 
on?  I'm  in  the  dark." 

"So  am  I,  to  tell  the  truth.  I  haven't  lived  in  one 
of  these  small  towns  since  I  was  a  lad.  I  have  a 
faint  recollection  that  introductions  were  absolutely 
necessary.  They  have  an  etiquette  which  is  as  binding 
as  that  of  McAllister's  Four  Hundred,  but  what  it  is  I 
don't  know." 

"Well,  we'll  wait." 

"The  boys  are  perfectly  at  home,"  said  Robert,  with 
a  little  emphasis  on  boys,  which  was  the  first  indication 
of  his  disappointment.  The  people  he  had  failed  to 
reach. 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door  that  startled  them 
both.  "Come  in,"  said  Robert,  in  a  nervous  shcut. 

"Land  sakes!  did  I  scare  ye?  Seem  so,  way  ye 
yelled,"  said  a  high-keyed  nasal  voice,  and  a  tall  woman 
came  in,  followed  by  an  equally  stalwart  man. 

"How  d'e  do,  Mrs.  Folsom?    My  wife,  Mr.  Folsom." 

Folsom's  voice  was  lost  in  the  bustle  of  getting  set 
tled,  but  Mrs.  Folsom's  voice  rose  above  the  clamor. 
"I  was  tellin'  him  it  was  about  time  we  got  neighborly. 
I  never  let  anybody  come  to  town  a  week  without 
callin'  on  'em.  It  does  a  body  a  heap  o'  good  to  see 
a  face  outside  the  family  once  in  a  while,  specially  in  a 
new  place.  How  do  you  like  up  here  on  the  hill  ?" 

"Very  much.     The  view  is  so  fine." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  it  is.  Still,  it  ain't  my  notion.  I 
don't  like  to  climb  hills  well  enough.  Still,  I've  heard 


God's   Ravens  315 

of  people  buildin'  just  for  the  view.  It's  all  in  taste, 
as  the  old  woman  said  that  kissed  the  cow." 

There  was  an  element  of  shrewdness  and  self-analysis 
in  Mrs.  Folsom  which  saved  her  from  being  grotesque. 
She  knew  she  was  queer  to  Mrs.  Bloom,  but  she  did  not 
resent  it.  She  was  still  young  in  form  and  face,  but 
her  teeth  were  gone,  and,  like  so  many  of  her  neighbors, 
she  was  too  poor  to  replace  them  from  the  dentist's. 
She  wore  a  decent  calico  dress  and  a  shawl  and  hat. 

As  she  talked  her  eyes  took  in  every  article  of  furni 
ture  in  the  room,  and  every  little  piece  of  fancy-work 
and  bric-a-brac.  In  fact,  she  reproduced  the  pattern 
of  one  of  the  tidies  within  two  days. 

Folsom  sat  dumbly  in  his  chair.  Robert,  who  met 
him  now  as  a  neighbor  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  talk 
with  him,  but  failed,  and  turned  himself  gladly  to 
Mrs.  Folsom,  who  delighted  him  with  her  vigorous 
phrases. 

"Oh,  we're  a-movin',  though  you  wouldn't  think  it. 
This  town  is  filled  with  a  lot  of  old  skinflints.  Close 
ain't  no  name  for  'em.  Jest  ask  Folsom  thar  about 
'em.  He's  been  buildin'  their  houses  for  'em.  Still, 
I  suppose  they  say  the  same  thing  o'  me,"  she  added, 
with  a  touch  of  humor  which  always  saved  her.  She 
used  a  man's  phrases.  " We're  always  ready  to  tax 
some  other  feller,  but  we  kick  like  mules  when  the  tax 
falls  on  us,"  she  went  on.  "My  land!  the  fight  we've 
had  to  git  sidewalks  in  this  town!" 

"You  should  be  mayor." 

"That's  what  I  tell  Folsom.  Takes  a  woman  to 
clean  things  up.  Well,  I  must  run  along.  Thought 


316  Main-Travelled    Roads 

Fd  jest  call  in  and  see  how  you  all  was.  Come  down 
when  ye  kin." 

"Thank  you,  I  will." 

After  they  had  gone  Robert  turned  with  a  smile: 
"Our  first  formal  call." 

"Oh,  dear,  Robert,  what  can  I  do  with  such  people?" 

"Go  see 'em.  I  like  her.  She's  shrewd.  You'll  like 
her,  too." 

"  But  what  can  I  say  to  such  people  ?  Did  you  hear 
her  say  'we  fellers'  to  me?" 

Robert  laughed.  "That's  nothing.  She  feels  as 
much  of  a  man,  or  *  feller,'  as  any  one.  Why  shouldn't 
she?" 

"But  she's  so  vulgar." 

"I  admit  she  isn't  elegant,  but  I  think  she's  a  good 
wife  and  mother." 

"I  wonder  if  they're  all  like  that?" 

"Now,  Mate,  we  must  try  not  to  offend  them.  We 
must  try  to  be  one  of  them." 

But  this  was  easier  said  than  done.  As  he  went 
down  to  the  post-office  and  stood  waiting  for  his  mail 
like  the  rest  he  tried  to  enter  into  conversation  with 
them,  but  mainly  they  moved  away  from  him.  William 
McTurg  nodded  at  him  and  said,  "How  de  do?"  and 
McLane  asked  how  he  liked  his  new  place,  and  that 
was  about  all. 

He  couldn't  reach  them.  They  suspected  him. 
They  had  only  the  estimate  of  the  men  who  had 
worked  for  him;  and,  while  they  were  civil,  they  plainly 
didn't  need  him  in  the  slightest  degree,  except  as  a 
topic  of  conversation. 


God's    Ravens  317 

He  did  not  improve  as  he  had  hoped  to  do.  The 
spring  was  wet  and  cold,  the  most  rainy  and  depressing 
the  valley  had  seen  in  many  years.  Day  after  day  the 
rain-clouds  sailed  in  over  the  northern  hills  and  deluged 
the  flat  little  town  with  water,  till  the  frogs  sang  in 
every  street,  till  the  main  street  mired  down  every 
team  that  drove  into  it. 

The  corn  rotted  in  the  earth,  but  the  grass  grew  tall 
and  yellow-green,  the  trees  glistened  through  the  gray 
air,  and  the  hills  were  like  green  jewels  of  incalculable 
worth,  when  the  sun  shone,  at  sweet  infrequent  in 
tervals. 

The  cold  and  damp  struck  through  into  the  alien's 
heart.  It  seemed  to  prophesy  his  dark  future.  He  sat 
at  his  desk  and  looked  out  into  the  gray  rain  with 
gloomy  eyes — a  prisoner  when  he  had  expected  to  be 
free. 

He  had  failed  in  his  last  venture.  He  had  not  gained 
any  power — he  was  really  weaker  than  ever.  The  rain 
had  kept  him  confined  to  the  house.  The  joy  he  had 
anticipated  of  tracing  out  all  his  boyish  pleasure  haunts 
was  cut  off.  He  had  relied,  too,  upon  that  as  a  source 
of  literary  power. 

He  could  not  do  much  more  than  walk  down  to  the 
post-office  and  back  on  the  pleasantest  days.  A  few 
people  called,  but  he  could  not  talk  to  them,  and  they 
did  not  call  again. 

In  the  mean  while  his  little  bank-account  was 
vanishing.  The  boys  were  strong  and  happy;  that 
was  his  only  comfort.  And  his  wife  seemed  strong, 
too.  She  had  little  time  to  get  lonesome. 


318  Main-Travelled    Roads 

He  grew  morbid.  His  weakness  and  insecurity  made 
him  jealous  of  the  security  and  health  of  others. 

He  grew  almost  to  hate  the  people  as  he  saw  them 
coming  and  going  in  the  mud,  or  heard  their  loud 
hearty  voices  sounding  from  the  street.  He  hated 
their  gossip,  their  dull  jokes.  The  flat  little  town 
grew  vulgar  and  low  and  desolate  to  him. 

Every  little  thing  which  had  amused  him  now 
annoyed  him.  The  cut  of  their  beards  worried  him. 
Their  voices  jarred  upon  him.  Every  day  or  two  he 
broke  forth  to  his  wife  in  long  tirades  of  abuse. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  these  people!  They  don't  know 
anything.  They  talk  every  rag  of  gossip  into  shreds. 
'Taters,  fish,  hops;  hops,  fish,  and  'taters.  They've 
saved  and  pinched  and  toiled  till  their  souls  are  pinched 
and  ground  away.  You're  right.  They  are  carica 
tures.  They  don't  read  or  think  about  anything  in 
which  I'm  interested.  This  life  is  nerve-destroying. 
Talk  about  the  health  of  the  village  life!  it  destroys 
body  and  soul.  It  debilitates  me.  It  will  warp  us 
both  down  to  the  level  of  these  people." 

She  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  went  on,  a  flush  of 
fever  on  his  cheek: 

"They  degrade  the  nature  they  have  touched. 
Their  squat  little  town  is  a  caricature  like  themselves. 
Everything  they  touch  they  belittle.  Here  they  sit 
while  sidewalks  rot  and  teams  mire  in  the  streets." 

He  raged  on  like  one  demented — bitter,  accusing, 
rebellious.  In  such  a  mood  he  could  not  write.  In 
place  of  inspiring  him,  the  little  town  and  its  people 
seemed  to  undermine  his  power  and  turn  his  sweetness 


God's    Ravens  319 

of  spirit  into  gall  and  acid.  He  only  bowed  to  them  now 
as  he  walked  feebly  among  them,  and  they  excused  it 
by  referring  to  his  sickness.  They  eyed  him  each  time 
with  pitying  eyes.  "He's  failin*  fast,"  they  said 
among  themselves. 

One  day,  as  he  was  returning  from  the  post-office, 
he  felt  blind  for  a  moment  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
head.  The  world  of  vivid  green  grew  gray,  and  life 
receded  from  him  into  illimitable  distance.  He  had 
one  dim  fading  glimpse  of  a  shaggy-bearded  face  looking 
down  at  him,  and  felt  the  clutch  of  an  iron- hard  strong 
arm  under  him,  and  then  he  lost  hold  even  on  so  much 
consciousness. 

He  came  back  slowly,  rising  out  of  immeasurable 
deeps  toward  a  distant  light  which  was  like  the  mouth 
of  a  well  filled  with  clouds  of  misty  vapor.  Occa 
sionally  he  saw  a  brown  big  hairy  face  floating  in  over 
this  lighted  horizon,  to  smile  kindly  and  go  away  again. 
Others  came  with  shaggy  beards.  He  heard  a  cheery 
tenor  voice  which  he  recognized,  and  then  another 
face,  a  big  brown  smiling  face;  very  lovely  it  looked 
now  to  him — almost  as  lovely  as  his  wife's,  which 
floated  in  from  the  other  side. 

"He's  all  right  now,"  said  the  cheery  tenor  voice 
from  the  big  bearded  face. 

"Oh,  Mr.  McTurg,  do  you  think  so?" 

"Ye-e-s,  sir.  He's  all  right.  The  fever's  left  him. 
Brace  up,  old  man.  We  need  ye  yit  awhile."  Then 
all  was  silent  again. 

The  well-mouth  cleared  away  its  mist  again,  and  he 


320  Main-Travelled    Roads 

saw  more  clearly.  Part  of  the  time  he  knew  he  was  in 
bed  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Part  of  the  time  the  well- 
mouth  remained  closed  in  with  clouds. 

Gaunt  old  women  put  spoons  of  delicious  broth  to 
his  lips,  and  their  toothless  mouths  had  kindly  lines 
about  them.  He  heard  their  high  voices  sounding 
faintly. 

"Now,  Mis'  Bloom,  jest  let  Mis'  Folsom  an'  me 
attend  to  things  out  here.  We'll  get  supper  for  the 
boys,  an'  you  jest  go  an'  lay  down.  We'll  take  care  of 
him.  Don't  worry.  Bell's  a  good  hand  with  sick." 

Then  the  light  came  again,  and  he  heard  a  robin 
singing,  and  a  cat-bird  squalled  softly,  pitifully.  He 
could  see  the  ceiling  again.  He  lay  on  his  back,  with 
his  hands  on  his  breast.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  dead. 
He  seemed  to  feel  his  body  as  if  it  were  an  alien  thing. 

"How  are  you,  sir?"  called  the  laughing,  thrillingly 
hearty  voice  of  William  McTurg. 

He  tried  to  turn  his  head,  but  it  wouldn't  move. 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  dry  throat  made  no  noise. 

The  big  man  bent  over  him.  "Want  'o  change 
place  a  little?" 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  answer. 

A  giant  arm  ran  deftly  under  his  shoulders  and 
turned  him  as  if  he  were  an  infant,  and  a  new  part  of 
the  good  old  world  burst  on  his  sight.  The  sunshine 
streamed  in  the  windows  through  a  waving  screen  of 
lilac  leaves  and  fell  upon  the  carpet  in  a  priceless 
flood  of  radiance. 

There  sat  William  McTurg  smiling  at  him.  He  had 
no  coat  on  and  no  hat,  and  his  bushy  thick  hair  rose  up 


God's    Ravens  321 

from  his  forehead  like  thick  marsh-grass.  He  looked  to 
be  the  embodiment  of  sunshine  and  health.  Sun  and 
air  were  in  his  brown  face,  and  the  perfect  health  of  a 
fine  animal  was  in  his  huge  limbs.  He  looked  at 
Robert  with  a  smile  that  brought  a  strange  feeling  into 
his  throat.  It  made  him  try  to  speak;  at  last  he 
whispered. 

The  great  figure  bent  closer:  "What  is  it  ?" 

"Thank— you." 

William  laughed  a  low  chuckle.  "Don't  bother 
about  thanks.  Would  you  like  some  water?" 

A  tall  figure  joined  William,  awkwardly. 

"Hello,  Evan!" 

"How  is  he,  Bill?" 

"He's  awake  to-day." 

"That's  good.     Anything  I  can  do?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.     All  he  needs  is  somethin'  to  eat." 

"I  jest  brought  a  chicken  up,  an'  some  jell  an'  things 
the  women  sent.  I'll  stay  with  him  till  twelve,  then 
Folsom  will  come  in." 

Thereafter  he  lay  hearing  the  robins  laugh  and  the 
orioles  whistle,  and  then  the  frogs  and  katydids  at 
night.  These  men  with  greasy  vests  and  unkempt 
beards  came  in  every  day.  They  bathed  him,  and 
helped  him  to  and  from  the  bed.  They  helped  to  dress 
him  and  move  him  to  the  window,  where  he  could  look 
out  on  the  blessed  green  of  the  grass. 

O  God,  it  was  so  beautiful!  It  was  a  lover's  joy  only 
to  live,  to  look  into  these  radiant  vistas  again.  A  cat 
bird  was  singing  in  the  currant-hedge.  A  robin  was 
hopping  across  the  lawn.  The  voices  of  the  children 


322  Main-Travelled    Roads 

sounded  soft  and  jocund  across  the  road.  And  the 
sunshine — "Beloved  Christ,  Thy  sunshine  falling  upon 
my  feet!"  His  soul  ached  with  the  joy  of  it,  and  when 
his  wife  came  in  she  found  him  sobbing  like  a  child. 

They  seemed  never  to  weary  in  his  service.  They 
lifted  him  about,  and  talked  to  him  in  loud  and  hearty 
voices  which  roused  him  like  fresh  winds  from  free 
spaces. 

He  heard  the  women  busy  with  things  in  the  kitchen. 
He  often  saw  them  loaded  with  things  to  eat  passing  his 
window,  and  often  his  wife  came  in  and  knelt  down  at 
his  bed. 

"Oh,  Robert,  they're  so  good!  They  feed  us  like 
God's  ravens." 

One  day,  as  he  sat  at  the  window  fully  dressed  for 
the  fourth  or  fifth  time,  William  McTurg  came  up  the 
walk. 

"Well,  Robert,  how  are  ye  to-day?" 

"First  rate,  William,"  he  smiled.  "I  believe  I  can 
walk  out  a  little  if  you'll  help  me." 

"All  right,  sir."   ' 

And  he  went  forth  leaning  on  William's  arm,  a 
piteous  wraith  of  a  man. 

On  every  side  the  golden  June  sunshine  fell,  filling 
the  valley  from  purple  brim  to  purple  brim.  Down 
over  the  hill  to  the  west  the  light  poured,  tangled  and 
glowing  in  the  plum  and  cherry  trees,  leaving  the  glis 
tening  grass  spraying  through  the  elms,  and  flinging 
streamers  of  pink  across  the  shaven  green  slopes  where 
the  cattle  fed. 

On  every  side  he  saw  kindly  faces  and  heard  hearty 


God's    Ravens  323 

'Good  day,  Robert.  Glad  to  see  you  out 
again."  It  thrilled  him  to  hear  them  call  him  by  his 
first  name. 

His  heart  swelled  till  he  could  hardly  breathe.  The 
passion  of  living  came  back  upon  him,  shaking,  uplifting 
him.  His  pallid  lips  moved.  His  face  was  turned  to 
the  sky. 

"0  God,  let  me  live!  It  is  so  beautiful!  O  God, 
give  me  strength  again !  Keep  me  in  the  light  of  the 
sun!  Let  me  see  the  green  grass  come  and  go!" 

He  turned  to  William  with  trembling  lips,  trying  to 
speak: 

"Oh,  I  understand  you  now.     I  know  you  all  now." 

But  William  did  not  understand  him. 

"There !  there !"  he  said,  soothingly.  " I  guess  you're 
gettin'  tired."  He  led  Robert  back  and  put  him  to  bed. 

"I'd  know  but  we  was  a  little  brash  about  goin*  out," 
William  said  to  him,  as  Robert  lay  there  smiling  up  at 
him. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  now,"  the  sick  man  said. 

"Matie,"  the  alien  cried,  when  William  had  gone, 
"we  know  our  neighbors  now,  don't  we?  We  never 
can  hate  or  ridicule  them  again." 

"Yes,  Robert.     They  never  will  be  caricatures  again 


—to  me." 


A  "GOOD  FELLOW'S"  WIFE 


A  "GOOD   FELLOW'S"  WIFE 

I 

LIFE  in  the  small  towns  of  the  older  West  moves 
slowly — almost  as  slowly  as  in  the  seaport  villages  or 
little  towns  of  the  East.  Towns  like  Tyre  and  Bluff 
Siding  have  grown  during  the  last  twenty  years,  but 
very  slowly,  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees.  Lying 
too  far  away  from  the  Mississippi  to  be  affected  by 
the  lumber  interest,  they  are  merely  trading-points 
for  the  farmers,  with  no  perceivable  germs  of  boom  in 
their  quiet  life. 

A  stranger  coming  into  Belfast,  Minnesota,  excites 
much  the  same  languid  but  persistent  inquiry  as  in 
Belfast,  New  Hampshire.  Juries  of  men,  seated  on  salt- 
barrels  and  nail-kegs,  discuss  the  stranger's  appearance 
and  his  probable  action,  just  as  in  Kittery,  Maine,  but 
with  a  lazier  speech-tune,  and  with  a  shade  less  of  ap 
parent  interest. 

On  such  a  rainy  day  as  comes  in  May  after  the  corn 
is  planted — a  cold,  wet  rainy  day — the  usual  crowd  was 
gathered  in  Wilson's  grocery-store  at  Bluff  Siding,  a 
small  town  in  "The  Coally  Country."  They  were 
farmers,  for  the  most  part,  retired  from  active  service. 
Their  coats  were  of  cheap  diagonal  or  cassimere,  much 


328         .         Main-Travelled   Roads 

faded  and  burned  by  the  sun;  their  hats,  flapped  about 
by  winds  and  soaked  with  countless  rains,  were  also 
of  the  same  yellow-brown  tints.  One  or  two  wore 
paper  collars  on  their  hickory  shirts. 

Mcllvaine,  farmer  and  wheat-buyer,  wore  a  paper 
collar  and  a  butterfly  necktie,  as  befitted  a  man  of  his 
station  in  life.  He  was  a  short,  squarely  made  Scotch 
man,  with  sandy  whiskers  much  grayed,  and  with  a 
keen,  intensely  blue  eye. 

"Say,"  called  McPhail,  ex-sheriff  of  the  county,  in 
the  silence  that  followed  some  remark  about  the  rain, 
"any  o'  you  fellers  had  any  talk  with  this  feller  San- 
ford?" 

"I  hain't,"  said  Vance.    "You,  Bill?" 

"No;  but  somebody  was  sayin'  he  thought  o*  startin* 
in  trade  here." 

"Don't  Sam  know?  He  generally  knows  what's 
goin'  on." 

"Knows  he  registered  from  Pittsfield,  Mass.,  an' 
that's  all.  Say,  that's  a  mighty  smart-lookin'  woman 
o'  his." 

"Vance  always  sees  how  the  women  look.  Where'd 
you  see  her?" 

"Came  in  here  the  other  day  to  look  up  prices." 

"  Wha'd  she  say  'bout  settlin'  ?" 

"Hadn't  decided  yet." 

"He's  too  slick  to  have  much  business  in  him. 
That  waxed  mwrtache  gives  'im  away." 

The  discussion  having  reached  that  point  where  his 
word  would  have  most  effect,  Steve  Gilbert  said,  while 


A   "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  329 

opening  the  hearth  to  rap  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe, 
"Sam's  wife  heerd  that  he  was  kind  o'  thinkin'  some 
of  goin'  into  business  here,  if  things  suited  'im  first- 
rate." 

They  all  knew  the  old  man  was  aching  to  tell  some 
thing,  but  they  didn't  purpose  to  gratify  him  by  any 
questions.  The  rain  dripped  from  the  awning  in  front, 
and  fell  upon  the  roof  of  the  storeroom  at  the  back 
with  a  soft  and  steady  roar. 

"Good  f'r  the  corn,"  McPhail  said,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Purty  cold,  though." 

Gilbert  was  tranquil  —  he  had  a  shot  in  reserve. 

"Sam's  wife  said  his  wife  said  he  was  thinkin'  some 
of  goin'  into  a  bank  here  —  " 

"A  bank!" 

"What  in  thunder—" 

Vance  turned,  with  a  comical  look  on  his  long, 
placid  face,  one  hand  stroking  his  beard. 

"Well,  now,  gents,  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter 
with  this  town.  It  needs  a  bank.  Yes,  sir!  /  need  a 
bank." 

"You?" 

"Yes,  me.  I  didn't  know  just  what  did  ail  me,  but 
I  do  now.  It's  the  need  of  a  bank  that  keeps  me  down." 

"Well,  you  fellers  can  talk  an'  laugh,  but  I  tell 
yeh  they's  a  boom  goin'  to  strike  this  town.  It's  got 
to  come.  W'y,  just  look  at  Lumberville!" 

"Their  boom  is  our  bust"  was  McPhail's  comment. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Sanford,  who  had  entered 
:n  time  to  hear  these  last  two  speeches.  They  all  looked 


\ 


330  Main-Travelled   Roads 

at  him  with  deep  interest.  He  was  a  smallish  man. 
He  wore  a  derby  hat  and  a  neat  suit.  "I've  looked 
things  over  pretty  close — a  man  don't  like  to  invest 
his  capital"  (here  the  rest  looked  at  one  another) 
"till  he  does;  and  I  believe  there's  an  opening  for  a 
bank." 

As  he  dwelt  upon  the  scheme  from  day  to  day,  the 
citizens  warmed  to  him,  and  he  became  "Jim"  Sanford. 
He  hired  a  little  cottage,  and  went  to  housekeeping  at 
once;  but  the  entire  summer  went  by  before  he  made 
his  decision  to  settle.  In  fact,  it  was  in  the  last  week  of 
August  that  the  little  paper  announced  it  in  the  usual 
style: 

Mr.  James  G.  Sanford,  popularly  known  as  "Jim,"  has 
decided  to  open  an  exchange  bank  for  the  convenience  of  our 
citizens,  who  have  hitherto  been  forced  to  transact  business 
in  Lumberville.  The  thanks  of  the  town  are  due  Mr.  Sanford, 
who  comes  well  recommended  from  Massachusetts  and  from 
Milwaukee,  and,  better  still,  with  a  bag  of  ducats.  Mr.  S. 
will  be  well  patronized.  Success,  Jim! 

The  bank  was  open  by  the  time  the  corn-crop  and 
the  hogs  were  being  marketed,  and  money  was  received 
on  deposit  while  the  carpenters  were  still  at  work  on 
the  building.  Everybody  knew  now  that  he  was  as 
solid  as  oak. 

He  had  taken  into  the  bank,  as  bookkeeper,  Lincoln 
Bingham,  one  of  McPhail's  multitudinous  nephews; 
and  this  was  a  capital  move.  Everybody  knew  Link, 
and  knew  he  was  a  McPhail,  which  meant  that  he 
"could  be  tied  to  in  all  kinds  o'  weather."  Of  course 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  331 

the  McPhails,  Mcllvaines,  and  the  rest  of  the  Scotch 
contingency  "banked  on  Link."  As  old  Andrew 
McPhail  put  it: 

"Link's  there,  an*  he  knows  the  bank  an*  books, 
an5  just  how  things  stand";  and  so  when  he  sold  his 
hogs  he  put  the  whole  sum — over  fifteen  hundred 
dollars — into  the  bank.  The  Mcllvaines  and  the  Bing- 
hams  did  the  same,  and  the  bank  was  at  once  firmly 
established  among  the  farmers. 

Only  two  people  held  out  against  Sanford,  old  Freenie 
Cole  and  Mrs.  Bingham,  Lincoln's  mother;  but  they 
didn't  count,  for  Freeme  hadn't  a  cent,  and  Mrs.  Bing 
ham  was  too  unreasoning  in  her  opposition.  She 
could  only  say:  "I  don't  like  him,  that's  all.  I  knowed 
a  man  back  in  New  York  that  curled  his  w^Jtaches  just 
that  way,  an'  he  wa'n't  no  earthly  good." 

It  might  have  been  said  by  a  cynic  that  Banker 
Sanford  had  all  the  virtues  of  a  defaulting  bank  cashier. 
He  had  no  bad  habits  beyond  smoking.  He  was  genial, 
companionable,  and  especially  ready  to  help  when 
sickness  came.  When  old  Freeme  Cole  got  down  with 
delirium  tremens  that  winter,  Sanford  was  one  of  the 
most  heroic  of  nurses,  and  the  service  was  so  clearly 
disinterested  and  magnanimous  that  every  one  spoke 
of  it. 

His  wife  and  he  were  included  in  every  dance  or 
picnic;  for  Mrs.  Sanford  was  as  great  a  favorite  as  the 
banker  himself,  she  was  so  sincere,  and  her  gray  eyes 
were  so  charmingly  frank,  and  then  she  said  "such 
funny  things." 


332  Main-Travelled    Roads 

"I  wish  I  had  something  to  do  besides  housework. 
It's  a  kind  of  a  putterin'  job,  best  ye  can  do,"  she'd 
say,  merrily,  just  to  see  the  others  stare.  "There's 
too  much  moppin'  an'  dustin'.  Seems  Js  if  a  woman 
used  up  half  her  life  on  things  that  don't  amount  to 
anything,  don't  it?" 

"I  tell  yeh  that  feller's  a  scallywag.  I  know  it  buh 
the  way  'e  walks  'long  the  sidewalk,"  Mrs.  Bingham 
insisted  to  her  son,  who  wished  her  to  put  her  savings 
into  the  bank. 

The  youngest  of  a  large  family,  Link  had  been  accus 
tomed  all  his  life  to  Mrs.  Bingham's  many  whimsicali 
ties. 

"I  s'pose  you  can  smell  he's  a  thief,  just  as  you  can 
tell  when  it's  goin'  to  rain,  or  the  butter's  comin*,  by 
the  smell." 

"Well,  you  needn't  laugh,  Lincoln.  I  can"  main 
tained  the  old  lady,  stoutly.  "An'  I  ain't  goin'  to  put 
a  red  cent  o'  my  money  into  his  pocket — f'r  there's 
where  it  'ud  go  to." 

She  yielded  at  last,  and  received  a  little  bank-book 
in  return  for  her  money.  "Jest  about  all  I'll  ever  get," 
she  said,  privately;  and  thereafter  out  of  her  brass- 
bowed  spectacles  with  an  eagle's  gaze  she  watched  the 
banker  go  by.  But  the  banker,  seeing  the  dear  old  soul 
at  the  window  looking  out  at  him,  always  smiled  and 
bowed,  unaware  of  her  suspicion. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  he  bought  the  lot  next  his 
rented  house,  and  began  building  one  of  his  own,  a 
modest  little  affair,  shaped  like  a  pork-pie  with  a  cu- 


A   "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  333 

pola,  or  a  Tam-o'-Shanter  cap — a  style  of  architecture 
which  became  fashionable  at  once. 

He  worked  heroically  to  get  the  location  of  the  plow- 
factory  at  Bluff  Siding,  and  all  but  succeeded;  but 
Tyre,  once  their  ally,  turned  against  them,  and  refused 
to  consider  the  fact  of  the  Siding's  position  at  the  cen 
tre  of  the  county.  However,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
the  town  woke  up  to  something  of  a  boom  during  the 
next  two  years.  Several  large  farmers  decided  to  re 
tire  and  live  off  the  sweat  of  some  other  fellow's  brow, 
and  so  built  some  houses  of  the  pork-pie  order,  and 
moved  into  town. 

This  inflow  of  moneyed  men  from  the  country  re 
sulted  in  the  establishment  of  a  "seminary  of  learning" 
on  the  hillside,  where  the  Soldiers'  Home  was  to  be 
located.  This  called  in  more  farmers  from  the  country, 
and  a  new  hotel  was  built,  a  sash-and-door  factory 
followed,  and  Burt  McPhail  set  up  a  feed-mill. 

All  this  improvement  unquestionably  dated  from 
the  opening  of  the  bank,  and  the  most  unreasoning 
partisans  of  the  banker  held  him  to  be  the  chief  cause  of 
the  resulting  development  of  the  town,  though  he  him 
self  modestly  disclaimed  any  hand  in  the  affair. 

Had  Bluff  Siding  been  a  city,  the  highest  civic  hon 
ors  would  have  been  open  to  Banker  Sanford;  indeed, 
his  name  was  repeatedly  mentioned  in  connection  with 
the  county  offices. 

"No,  gentlemen,"  he  explained,  firmly,  but  courte 
ously,  in  Wilson's  store  one  night;  "I'm  a  banker, 
not  a  politician.  I  can't  ride  two  horses." 


334  Main-Travelled    Roads 

In  the  second  year  of  the  bank's  history  he  went  up 
to  the  north  part  of  the  state  on  business,  visiting 
West  Superior,  Duluth,  Ashland,  and  other  booming 
towns,  and  came  back  full  of  the  wonders  of  what  he 
saw. 

"There's  big  money  up  there,  Nell,"  he  said  to  his 
wife. 

But  she  had  the  woman's  tendency  to  hold  fast  to 
what  she  had,  and  would  not  listen  to  any  plans  about 
moving. 

"Build  up  your  business  here,  Jim,  and  don't  worry 
about  what  good  chances  there  are  somewhere  else." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  he  took  great  interest 
in  all  the  news  the  "boys"  brought  back  from  their 
annual  deer-hunts  "up  north."  They  were  all  enthu 
siastic  over  West  Superior  and  Duluth,  and  their 
wonderful  development  was  the  never-ending  theme  of 
discussion  in  Wilson's  store. 


II 

The  first  two  years  of  the  bank's  history  were 
solidly  successful,  and  "Jim"  and  "Nellie"  were  the 
head  and  front  of  all  good  works,  and  the  provoking 
cause  of  most  of  the  fun.  No  one  seemed  more  care-free. 

"We  consider  ourselves  just  as  young  as  anybody," 
Mrs.  Sanford  would  say,  when  joked  about  going  out 
with  the  young  people  so  much;  but  sometimes  at 
home,  after  the  children  were  asleep,  she  sighed  a  little. 

"Jim,  I  wish  you  was  in  some  kind  of  a  business 


A  "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  335 

so  I  could  help.  I  don't  have  enough  to  do.  I  s'pose 
I  could  mop  an'  dust,  an'  dust  an'  mop;  but  it  seems 
sinful  to  waste  time  that  way.  Can't  I  do  anything, 
Jim?" 

"Why,  no.  If  you  'tend  to  the  children  and  keep 
house,  that's  all  anybody  asks  of  you." 

She  was  silent,  but  not  convinced.  She  had  a  desire 
to  do  something  outside  the  walls  of  her  house — a 
desire  transmitted  to  her  from  her  father,  for  a  woman 
inherits  these  things. 

In  the  spring  of  the  second  year  a  number  of  the 
depositors  drew  out  money  to  invest  in  Duluth  and 
Superior  lots,  and  the  whole  town  was  excited  over  the 
matter. 

The  summer  passed,  Link  and  Sanford  spending 
their  time  in  the  bank — that  is,  when  not  out  swimming 
or  fishing  with  the  boys.  But  July  and  August  were 
terribly  hot  and  dry,  and  oats  and  corn  were  only  half- 
crop,  and  the  farmers  were  grumbling.  Some  of  them 
were  forced  to  draw  on  the  bank  instead  of  depositing. 

McPhail  came  in,  one  day  in  November,  to  draw  a 
thousand  dollars  to  pay  for  a  house  and  lot  he  had 
recently  bought. 

Sanford  was  alone.  He  whistled.  "Phew!  You're 
comin'  at  me  hard.  Come  in  to-morrow.  Link's  gone 
down  to  the  city  to  get  some  money." 

"All  right,"  said  McPhail;   "any  time." 


"Coin3 


"Looks  like  it.     I'll  haf  to  load  a  lot  o'  ca'tridges 
ready  Pr  biz." 


336  Main-Travelled    Roads 

About  an  hour  later  old  lady  Bingham  burst  upon 
the  banker,  wild  and  breathless.  "I  want  my  money," 
she  announced. 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Bingham.    Pleasant — " 

"I  want  my  money.    Where's  Lincoln?" 

She  had  read  that  morning  of  two  bank  failures — 
one  in  Nova  Scotia  and  one  in  Massachusetts — and 
they  seemed  providential  warnings  to  her.  Lincoln's 
absence  confirmed  them. 

"He's  gone  to  St.  Paul — won't  be  back  till  the  five- 
o'clock  train.  Do  you  need  some  money  this  morn 
ing?  How  much?" 

"All  of  it,  sir.  Every  cent." 

Sanford  saw  something  was  out  of  gear.  He  tried 
to  explain.  "  I've  sent  your  son  to  St.  Paul  after  some 
money — " 

"  Where's  my  money?  What  have  you  done  with 
that?"  In  her  excitement  she  thought  of  her  money 
just  as  she  had  handed  it  in — silver  and  little  rolls 
and  wads  of  bills. 

"If  you'll  let  me  explain — " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  explain  nawthin'.  Jest  hand 
me  out  my  money." 

Two  or  three  loafers,  seeing  her  gesticulate,  stopped 
on  the  walk  outside  and  looked  in  at  the  door.  Sanford 
was  annoyed,  but  he  remained  calm  and  persuasive. 
He  saw  that  something  had  caused  a  panic  in  the  good, 
simple  old  woman.  He  wished  for  Lincoln  as  one  wishes 
for  a  policeman  sometimes. 

"Now,Mrs.  Bingham,  if  you'll  only  wait  till  Lincoln—" 


A  "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  337 

r  I  don't  want  'o  wait.    I  want  my  money,  right  now." 

: Will  fifty  dollars  do?" 

:No,  sir;   I  want  it  all — every  cent  of  it — jest  as  it 


was." 


"But  I  can't  do  that.     Your  money  is  gone — " 

"Gone?  Where  is  it  gone?  What  have  you  done 
with  it?  You  thief— " 

"JSh!"  He  tried  to  quiet  her.  "I  mean  I  can't  give 
you  your  money — ' 

"Why  can't  you?"  she  stormed,  trotting  nervously 
on  her  feet  as  she  stood  there. 

"Because — if  you'd  let  me  explain — we  don't  keep 
the  money  just  as  it  comes  to  us.  We  pay  it  out,  and 
take  in  other — " 

Mrs.  Bingham  was  getting  more  and  more  bewil 
dered.  She  now  had  only  one  clear  idea — she  couldn't 
get  her  money.  Her  voice  grew  tearful  like  an  angry 
child's. 

"I  want  my  money — I  knew  you'd  steal  it — that  I 
worked  for.  Give  me  my  money." 

Sanford  hastily  handed  her  some  money.  "Here's 
fifty  dollars.  You  can  have  the  rest  when — " 

The  old  lady  clutched  the  money,  and  literally  ran 
out  of  the  door,  and  went  off  up  the  sidewalk,  talking 
incoherently.  To  every  one  she  met  she  told  her 
story;  but  the  men  smiled  and  passed  on.  They  had 
heard  her  predictions  of  calamity  before. 

But  Mrs.  Mcllvaine  was  made  a  trifle  uneasy  by  it. 
"He  wouldn't  give  you  y'r  money?  Or  did  he  say  he 
couldn't?"  she  inquired,  in  her  moderate  way. 


338  Main-Travelled   Roads 

"He  couldn't,  an'  he  wouldn't!"  she  said.  "If  you've 
got  any  money  there,  you'd  better  get  it  out  quick. 
It  ain't  safe  a  minute.  When  Lincoln  comes  home  I'm 
goin'  to  see  if  I  can't— 

"Well,  I  was  calc'latin'  to  go  to  Lumberville  this 
week,  anyway,  to  buy  a  carpet  and  a  chamber  set.  I 
guess  I  might  's  well  get  the  money  to-day." 

When  she  came  in  and  demanded  the  money,  San- 
ford  was  scared.  Were  these  two  old  women  the  be 
ginning  of  the  deluge?  Would  McPhail  insist  on  being 
paid  also?  There  was  just  one  hundred  dollars  left  in 
the  bank,  together  with  a  little  silver.  With  rare 
strategy  he  smiled. 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Mcllvaine.  How  much  will  you 
need?" 

She  had  intended  to  demand  the  whole  of  her  deposit 
— one  hundred  and  seventeen  dollars — but  his  readiness 
mollified  her  a  little.  "I  did  'low  I'd  take  the  hull, 
but  I  guess  seventy-five  dollars  '11  do." 

He  paid  the  money  briskly  out  over  the  little  glass 
shelf.  "How  is  your  children,  Mrs.  Mcllvaine?" 

"Purty  well,  thanky,"  replied  Mrs.  Mcllvaine, 
laboriously  counting  the  bills. 

"Is  it  all  right?" 

"I  guess  so,"  she  replied,  dubiously.  "I'll  count  it 
after  I  get  home." 

She  went  up  the  street  with  the  feeling  that  the  bank 
was  all  right,  and  she  stepped  in  and  told  Mrs.  Bing- 
ham  that  she  had  no  trouble  in  getting  her  money. 

After  she  had  gone  Sanford  sat  down  and  wrote  a 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  339 

telegram  which  he  sent  to  St.  Paul.  This  telegram,  ac 
cording  to  the  duplicate  at  the  station,  read  in  this 
puzzling  way: 

E.  O.,  Exchange  Block,  No.  96.  All  out  of  paper.  Send 
five  hundred  note-heads  and  envelopes  to  match.  Business 
brisk.  Press  of  correspondence  just  now.  Get  them  out 

quick.    Wire. 

SANFORD. 

Two  or  three  others  came  in  after  a  little  money, 
but  he  put  them  off  easily.  "Just  been  cashing  some 
paper,  and  took  all  the  ready  cash  I  can  spare.  Can't 
you  wait  till  to-morrow?  Link's  gone  down  to  St.  Paul 
to  collect  on  some  paper.  Be  back  on  the  five-o'clock. 
Nine  o'clock,  sure." 

An  old  Norwegian  woman  came  in  to  deposit  ten 
dollars,  and  he  counted  it  in  briskly,  and  put  the 
amount  down  on  her  little  book  for  her.  Barney  Mace 
came  in  to  deposit  a  hundred  dollars,  the  proceeds  of  a 
horse  sale,  and  this  helped  him  through  the  day. 
Those  who  wanted  small  sums  he  paid. 

"Glad  this  ain't  a  big  demand.  Rather  close  on  cash 
to-day,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  Lincoln's  wife's  sister  came 
in. 

She  laughed.  "I  guess  it  won't  bu'st  yeh.  If  I 
thought  it  would,  I'd  leave  it  in." 

"Bu'sted!"  he  said,  when  Vance  wanted  him  to  cash 
a  draft.  "Can't  do  it.  Sorry,  Van.  Do  it  in  the  morn 
ing  all  right.  Can  you  wait?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  so.    Haf  to,  won't  I?" 

"Curious,"    said    Sanford,    in    a    confidential    way. 


34°  Main-Travelled   Roads 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  things  get  in  just  such 
shape.  Paper  enough — but  exchange,  ye  know,  and 
readjustment  of  accounts." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  banking,  myself,"  said 
Vance,  good-naturedly;  "but  I  s'pose  it's  a  good  'eal 
£ame  as  with  a  man.  Git  short  o'  cash,  first  they  know 
— 'ain't  got  a  cent  to  spare." 

"That's  the  idea  exactly.  Credit  all  right,  plenty  o' 
property,  but — "  and  he  smiled  and  went  at  his  books. 
The  smile  died  out  of  his  eyes  as  Vance  went  out,  and 
he  pulled  a  little  morocco  book  from  his  pocket  and 
began  studying  the  beautiful  columns  of  figures  with 
which  it  seemed  to  be  filled.  Those  he  compared  with 
the  books  with  great  care,  thrusting  the  book  out  of 
sight  when  any  one  entered. 

He  closed  the  bank  as  usual  at  five.  Lincoln  had 
not  come — couldn't  come  now  till  the  nine-o'clock 
accommodation.  For  an  hour  after  the  shades  were 
drawn  he  sat  there  in  the  semi-darkness,  silently  pon 
dering  on  his  situation.  This  attitude  and  deep  quiet 
were  unusual  to  him.  He  heard  the  feet  of  friends  and 
neighbors  passing  the  door  as  he  sat  there  by  the  smoul 
dering  coal-fire,  in  the  growing  darkness.  There  was 
something  impressive  in  his  attitude. 

He  started  up  at  last,  and  tried  to  see  what  the  hour 
was  by  turning  the  face  of  his  watch  to  the  dull  glow 
from  the  cannon-stove's  open  door. 

"Supper-time,"  he  said,  and  threw  the  whole  matter 
off,  as  if  he  had  decided  it  or  had  put  off  the  decision 
till  another  time. 


A   "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  341 

As  he  went  by  the  post-office  Vance  said  to  Mcllvaine 
in  a  smiling  way,  as  if  it  were  a  good  joke  on  San- 
ford: 

"Little  short  o'  cash  down  at  the  bank." 

"He's  a  good  fellow,"  Mcllvaine  said. 

"So's  his  wife,"  added  Vance,  with  a  chuckle. 


Ill 

That  night,  after  supper,  Sanford  sat  in  his  snug 
little  sitting-room  with  a  baby  on  each  knee,  looking 
as  cheerful  and  happy  as  any  man  in  the  village.  The 
children  crowed  and  shouted  as  he  "trotted  them  to 
Boston,"  or  rode  them  on  the  toe  of  his  boot.  They 
made  a  noisy,  merry  group. 

Mrs.  Sanford  "did  her  own  work,"  and  her  swift  feet 
could  be  heard  moving  to  and  fro  out  in  the  kitchen. 
It  was  pleasant  there;  the  woodwork,  the  furniture, 
the  stove,  the  curtains — all  had  that  look  of  newness 
just  growing  into  coziness.  The  coal-stove  was  lighted 
and  the  curtains  were  drawn. 

After  the  work  in  the  kitchen  was  done,  Mrs.  Sanford 
came  in  and  sat  awhile  by  the  fire  with  the  children, 
looking  very  wifely  in  her  dark  dress  and  white  apron, 
her  round,  smiling  face  glowing  with  love  and  pride — 
the  gloating  look  of  a  mother  seeing  her  children  in  the 
arms  of  her  husband. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Peterson's  baby,  Jim?"  she  said,  sud 
denly,  her  face  sobering. 

"Pretty  bad,  I  guess.    La,  la,  la — deedle-dee!    The 


342  Main-Travelled   Roads 

doctor  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  tight  squeak  if  it  lived. 
Guess  it's  done  for — oop  'e  goes!" 

She  made  a  little  leap  at  the  youngest  child,  and 
clasped  it  convulsively  to  her  bosom.  Her  swift  mater 
nal  imagination  had  made  another's  loss  very  near 
and  terrible. 

"Oh,  say,  Nell,"  he  broke  out,  on  seeing  her  sober, 
"I  had  the  confoundedest  time  to-day  with  old  lady 
Bingham — " 

"'Sh!  Baby's  gone  to  sleep." 

After  the  children  had  been  put  to  bed  in  the  little 
alcove  off  the  sitting-room,  Mrs.  Sanford  came  back, 
to  find  Jim  absorbed  over  a  little  book  of  accounts. 

"What  are  you  studying,  Jim?" 

Some  one  knocked  on  the  door  before  he  had  time 
to  reply. 

"Come  in!"  he  said. 

"'Sh!    Don't  yell  so,"  his  wife  whispered. 

"Telegram,  Jim,"  said  a  voice  in  the  obscurity. 

"Oh!    That  you,  Sam?    Come  in." 

Sam,  a  lathy  fellow  with  a  quid  in  his  cheek,  stepped 
in.  " How  d"e  do,  Mis' Sanford?" 

"Set  down — se'  down." 

"Can't  stop;   'most  train-time." 

Sanford  tore  the  envelope  open,  read  the  telegram 
rapidly,  the  smile  fading  out  of  his  face.  He  read  it 
again,  word  for  word,  then  sat  looking  at  it. 

"Any  answer?"  asked  Sam. 

"No." 

"All  right.    Good-night." 


A  "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  343 

"Good-night." 

After  the  door  slammed,  Sanford  took  the  sheet  from 
the  envelope  and  reread  it.  At  length  he  dropped  into 
his  chair.  "That  settles  it,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"Settles  what?  What's  the  news?"  His  wife  came  up 
and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"Settles  I've  got  to  go  on  that  nine-thirty  train." 

"Be  back  on  the  morning  train?" 

"Yes;  I  guess  so — I  mean,  of  course — I'll  have  to  be 
— to  open  the  bank." 

Mrs.  Sanford  looked  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  in 
silence.  There  was  something  in  his  look,  and  espe 
cially  in  his  tone,  that  troubled  her. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Jim,  you  don't  intend  to  come 
back!"  She  took  his  arm.  "What's  the  matter?  Now 
tell  me!  What  are  you  going  away  for?" 

He  knew  he  could  not  deceive  his  wife's  ears  and  eyes 
just  then,  so  he  remained  silent.  "We've  got  to  leave, 
Nell,"  he  admitted  at  last. 

"Why?    What  for?" 

"Because  I'm  bu'sted — broke — gone  up  the  spout — 
and  all  the  rest!"  he  said,  desperately,  with  an  attempt 
at  fun.  "Mrs.  Bingham  and  Mrs.  Mcllvaine  have 
bu'sted  me — dead." 

"\Vhy — why — what  has  become  of  the  money — all 
the  money  the  people  have  put  in  there?" 

"Gone  up  with  the  rest." 

"What  Ve  you  done  with  it?   I  don't— 

"Well,  I've  invested  it — and  lost  it." 

"James   Gordon    Sanford!"    she    exclaimed,    trying 


344  Main-Travelled    Roads 

to  realize  it.  "Was  that  right?  Ain't  that  a  case 
of—  of—  " 

"Shouldn't  wonder.  A  case  of  embezzlement  such  as 
you  read  of  in  the  newspapers."  His  tone  was  easy, 
but  he  avoided  the  look  in  his  wife's  beautiful  gray  eyes. 

"But  it's — stealing — ain't  it?"  She  stared  at  him, 
bewildered  by  his  reckless  lightness  of  mood. 

"It  is  now,  because  I've  lost.  If  I'd  'a'  won  it,  it  'ud 
'a'  been  financial  shrewdness!" 

She  asked  her  next  question  after  a  pause,  in  a  low 
voice,  and  through  teeth  almost  set.  "Did  you  go  into 
this  bank  to — steal  this  money?  Tell  me  that!" 

"No;   I  didn't,  Nell.    I  ain't  quite  up  to  that." 

His  answer  softened  her  a  little,  and  she  sat  looking 
at  him  steadily  as  he  went  on.  The  tears  began  to 
roll  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  Her  hands  were  clenched. 

"The  fact  is,  the  idea  came  into  my  head  last  fall 
when  I  went  up  to  Superior.  My  partner  wanted  me  to 
go  in  with  him  on  some  land,  and  I  did.  We  speculated 
on  the  growth  of  the  town  toward  the  south.  We  made 
a  strike;  then  he  wanted  me  to  go  in  on  a  copper-mine. 
Of  course  I  expected— 

As  he  went  on  with  the  usual  excuses  her  mind 
made  all  the  allowances  possible  for  him.  He  had  al 
ways  been  boyish,  impulsive,  and  lacking  in  judgment 
and  strength  of  character.  She  was  humiliated  and 
frightened,  but  she  loved  and  sympathized  with  him. 

Her  silence  alarmed  him,  and  he  made  excuses  for 
himself.  He  was  speculating  for  her  sake  more  than 
for  his  own,  and  so  on. 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  345 

"Choo — choo!"  whistled  the  far-off  train  through  the 
still  air. 

He  sprang  up  and  reached  for  his  coat. 

She  seized  his  arm  again.  "Where  are  you  going?" 
she  sternly  asked. 

"To  take  that  train." 

"When  are  you  coming  back?" 

"I  don't  know."    But  his  tone  said,  "Never." 

She  felt  it.  Her  face  grew  bitter.  "Going  to  leave 
me  and — the  babies?" 

"I'll  send  for  you  soon.  Come,  good-by!"  He  tried 
to  put  his  arm  about  her.  She  stepped  back. 

"Jim,  if  you  leave  me  to-night"  ("Choo — choo!" 
whistled  the  engine),  "you  leave  me  forever."  There 
was  a  terrible  resolution  in  her  tone. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  stay  here.  If  you  go — I'll 
never  be  your  wife — again — never!"  She  glanced  at  the 
sleeping  children,  and  her  chin  trembled. 

"I  can't  face  those  fellows — they'll  kill  me,"  he  said, 
in  a  sullen  tone. 

"No,  they  won't.  They'll  respect  you,  if  you  stay 
and  tell  'em  exactly  how — it — all — is.  You've  disgraced 
me  and  my  children,  that's  what  you've  done!  If  you 
don't  stay — " 

The  clear  jangle  of  the  engine-bell  sounded  through 
the  night  as  with  the  whiz  of  escaping  steam  and  scrape 
and  jar  of  gripping  brakes  and  howl  of  wheels  the  train 
came  to  a  stop  at  the  station.  Sanford  dropped  his 
coat  and  sat  down  again. 


346  Main-Travelled    Roads 

"I'll  have  to  stay  now."  His  tone  was  dry  and  lifeless. 
It  had  a  reproach  in  it  that  cut  the  wife  deep — deep  as 
the  fountain  of  tears;  and  she  went  across  the  room  and 
knelt  at  the  bedside,  burying  her  face  in  the  clothes 
on  the  feet  of  her  children,  and  sobbed  silently. 

The  man  sat  with  bent  head,  looking  into  the  glow 
ing  coal,  whistling  through  his  teeth,  a  look  of  sullen 
resignation  and  endurance  on  his  face  that  had  never 
been  there  before.  His  very  attitude  was  alien  and 
ominous. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  At  last  he  rose  and 
began  taking  off  his  coat  and  vest. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  to  do  but  go  to  bed." 

She  did  not  stir — she  might  have  been  asleep  so  far 
as  any  sound  or  motion  was  concerned.  He  went  off 
to  the  bed  in  the  little  parlor,  and  she  still  knelt  there, 
her  heart  full  of  anger,  bitterness,  sorrow. 

The   sunny   uneventfulness   of  her   past   life   made 

this  great   storm  the  more  terrifying.     Her  trust  in 

her  husband  had  been  absolute.    A  farmer's  daughter, 

i     the  bank  clerk  had  seemed  to  her  the  equal  of  any 

gentleman  in  the  world — her  world;    and   when   she 

knew   his    delicacy,    his    unfailing    kindness,    and    his 

abounding  good  nature,  she  had  accepted  him  as  the 

father  of  her  children,  and  this  was  the  first  revelation 

..,--  to  her  of  his  inherent  moral  weakness. 

Her  mind  went  over  the  whole  ground  again  and 

again,  in  a  sort  of  blinding  rush.    She  was  convinced  of 

his  lack  of  honor  more  by  his  tone,  his  inflections, 

•     than  by  his  words.    His  lack  of  deep  regret,  his  readi- 


A   "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  347 

ness  to  leave  her  to  bear  the  whole  shock  of  the  dis 
covery — these  were  in  his  flippant  tones;  and  every 
time  she  thought  of  them  the  hot  blood  surged  over 
her.  At  such  moments  she  hated  him,  and  her  white 
teeth  clenched. 

To  these  moods  succeeded  others,  when  she  remem 
bered  his  smile,  the  dimple  in  his  chin,  his  tender  care 
for  the  sick,  his  buoyancy,  his  songs  to  the  children — 
How  could  he  sit  there,  with  the  children  on  his  knees, 
and  plan  to  run  away,  leaving  them  disgraced? 

She  went  to  bed  at  last  with  the  babies,  and  with 
their  soft,  warm  little  bodies  touching  her  side  fell 
asleep,  pondering,  suffering  as  only  a  mother  and  wife 
can  suffer  when  distrust  and  doubt  of  her  husband 
supplant  confidence  and  adoration. 


IV 

The  children  awakened  her  by  their  delighted  cooing 
and  kissing,  It  was  a  great  event,  this  waking  to  find 
mamma  in  their  bed.  It  was  hardly  light,  of  a  dull 
gray  morning;  and  with  the  children  tumbling  about 
over  her,  feeling  the  pressure  of  the  warm  little  hands 
and  soft  lips,  she  went  over  the  whole  situation  again, 
and  at  last  settled  upon  her  action. 

She  rose,  shook  down  the  coal  in  the  stove  in  the  sit 
ting-room,  and  started  a  fire  in  the  kitchen;  then  she 
dressed  the  children  by  the  coal-burner.  The  elder 
of  them,  as  soon  as  dressed,  ran  in  to  wake  "poppa" 
while  the  mother  went  about  breakfast-getting. 


348  Main-Travelled   Roads 

Sanford  came  out  of  his  bedroom  unwontedly  gloomy, 
greeting  the  children  in  a  subdued  manner.  He  shiv 
ered  as  he  sat  by  the  fire,  and  stirred  the  stove  as  if  he 
thought  the  room  was  cold.  His  face  was  pale  and 
moist. 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  James,"  called  Mrs.  Sanford, 
in  a  tone  which  she  meant  to  be  habitual,  but  which 
had  a  cadence  of  sadness  in  it. 

Someway,  he  found  it  hard  to  look  at  her  as  he  came 
out.  She  busied  herself  with  placing  the  children 
at  the  table,  in  order  to  conceal  her  own  emotion. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  eat  any  meat  this  morning, 
Nellie.  I  ain't  very  well." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  keenly.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"I  d'know.  My  stomach  is  kind  of  upset  by  this 
failure  o'  mine.  I'm  in  great  shape  to  go  down  to  the 
bank  this  morning — and  face  them  fellows — " 

"It's  got  to  be  done." 

"I  know  it;  but  that  don't  help  me  any."  He  tried 
to  smile. 

She  mused,  while  the  baby  hammered  on  his  tin  plate. 

"You've  got  to  go  down.  If  you  don't — I  will," 
said  she,  resolutely.  "And  you  must  say  that  that 
money  will  be  paid  back — every  cent." 

"But  that's  more'n  I  can  do — 

"It  must  be  done." 

"  But  under  the  law— " 

"There's  nothing  can  make  this  thing  right  except 
paying  every  cent  we  owe.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  it 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  349 

said  that  my  children — that  Pm  livin*  on  somebody 
else.  If  you  don't  pay  these  debts,  /  will.  Pve  thought 
it  all  out.  If  you  don't  stay  and  face  it,  and  pay  these 
men,  I  won't  own  you  as  my  husband.  I  loved  and 
trusted  you,  Jim — I  thought  you  was  honorable — it's 
been  a  terrible  blow — but  Pve  decided  it  all  in  my 
mind." 

She  conquered  her  little  weakness,  and  went  on  to 
the  end  firmly.  Her  face  looked  pale.  There  was  a 
square  look  about  the  mouth  and  chin.  The  iron  resolu 
tion  and  Puritanic  strength  of  her  father,  old  John 
Foreman,  had  come  to  the  surface.  Her  look  and  tone 
mastered  the  man,  for  he  loved  her  deeply. 

She  had  set  him  a  hard  task,  and  when  he  rose  and 
went  down  the  street  he  walked  with  bent  head,  quite 
unlike  his  usual  self. 

There  were  not  many  men  on  the  street.  It  seemed 
earlier  than  it  was,  for  it  was  a  raw,  cold  morning, 
promising  snow.  The  sun  was  completely  masked  in  a 
seamless  dust-gray  cloud.  He  met  Vance  with  a  brown 
parcel  (beefsteak  for  breakfast)  under  his  arm. 

"Hello,  Jim!   How  are  ye,  so  early  in  the  morning?" 

"Blessed  near  used  up." 

"That  so?  What's  the  matter?" 

"I  d'know,"  said  Jim,  listlessly.  "Bilious,  I  guess. 
Headache — stomach  bad." 

"Oh!  Well,  now,  you  try  them  pills  I  was  tellin' 
you  of." 

Arrived  at  the  bank,  he  let  himself  in,  and  locked 
the  door  behind  him.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 


3  jo  Main-Travelled   Roads 

floor  a  few  minutes,  then  went  behind  the  railing  and 
sat  down.  He  didn't  build  a  fire,  though  it  was  cold 
and  damp,  and  he  shivered  as  he  sat  leaning  on  the 
desk.  At  length  he  drew  a  large  sheet  of  paper  toward 
him  and  wrote  something  on  it  in  a  heavy  hand. 

He  was  writing  on  this  when  Lincoln  entered  at  the 
back,  whistling  boyishly.  " Hello,  Jim!  Ain't  you  up 
early?  No  fire,  eh?"  He  rattled  at  the  stove. 

Sanford  said  nothing,  but  finished  his  writing.  Then 
he  said,  quietly,  "You  needn't  build  a  fire  on  my 
account,  Link." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  I'm  used  up." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I'm  sick,  and  the  business  has  gone  to  the  devil." 
He  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Link  dropped  the  poker,  and  came  around  behind 
the  counter,  and  stared  at  Sanford  with  fallen  mouth. 

"Wha'dyousay?" 

"I  said  the  business  had  gone  to  the  devil.  We're 
broke — bu'sted — petered — gone  up  the  spout."  He 
took  a  sort  of  morbid  pleasure  in  saying  these  things. 

"What's  bu'sted  us?    Have—" 

"I've  been  speculatm'  in  copper.  My  partner's 
bu'sted  me." 

Link  came  closer.  His  mouth  stiffened  and  an  omi 
nous  look  came  into  his  eyes.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  you've  lost  my  money,  and  mother's,  and  Uncle 
Andrew's,  and  all  the  rest?" 

Sanford   was   getting   irritated.    " it!     What's 


A  "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  35! 

the  use?  I  tell  you,  yes!  It's  all  gone — every  cent 
of  it." 

Link  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  as  he  sat  at  the 
desk.  Sanford's  tone  enraged  him.  "You  thief!  But 
you'll  pay  me  back,  or  I'll— 

"Oh,  go  ahead!  Pound  a  sick  man,  if  it  '11  do  you 
any  good,"  said  Sanford,  with  a  peculiar  recklessness  of 
lifeless  misery.  "  Pay  y'rself  out  of  the  safe.  Here's 
the  combination." 

Lincoln  released  him,  and  began  turning  the  knob  of 
the  door.  At  last  it  swung  open,  and  he  searched  the 
money-drawers.  Less  than  forty  dollars,  all  told.  His 
voice  was  full  of  helpless  rage  as  he  turned  at  last  and 
walked  up  close  to  Sanford's  bowed  head. 

"I'd  like  to  pound  the  life  out  o'  you!" 

"You're  at  liberty  to  do  so,  if  it  '11  be  any  satisfac 
tion." 

This  desperate  courage  awed  the  younger  man.  He 
gazed  at  Sanford  in  amazement. 

"  If  you'll  cool  down  and  wait  a  little,  Link,  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it.  I'm  sick  as  a  horse.  I  guess  I'll  go 
home.  You  can  put  this  up  in  the  window,  and  go 
home,  too,  if  you  want  to." 

Lincoln  saw  that  Sanford  was  sick.  He  was  shiver 
ing,  and  drops  of  sweat  were  on  his  white  fore 
head.  Lincoln  stood  aside  silently,  and  let  him  go 
out. 

"Better  lock  up,  Link.  You  can't  do  anything  by 
staying  here." 

Lincoln  took  refuge  in  a  boyish  phrase  that  would 


352  Main-Travelled    Roads 

have  made  any  one  but  a  sick  man  laugh:  "Well, 
this  is  a  —    -  of  a  note!" 

He  took  up  the  paper.    It  read: 

BANK  CLOSED 


TO  MY   CREDITORS   AND   DEPOSITORS 

Through  a  combination  of  events  I  find  myself  obliged 
to  temporarily  suspend  payment.  I  ask  the  depositors  to  be 
patient,  and  their  claims  will  be  met.  I  think  I  can  pay  twen 
ty-five  cents  on  the  dollar,  if  given  a  little  time.  I  shall  not 
run  away.  I  shall  stay  right  here  till  all  matters  are  hon 
orably  settled. 

JAMES  G.  SANFORD. 

Lincoln  hastily  pinned  this  paper  to  the  window-sash 
so  that  it  could  be  seen  from  without,  then  pulled  down 
the  blinds  and  locked  the  door.  His  fun-loving  nature 
rose  superior  to  his  rage  for  the  moment.  "There'll 
be  the  devil  to  pay  in  this  burg  before  two  hours." 

He  slipped  out  the  back  way,  taking  the  keys  with 
him.  "I'll  go  and  tell  uncle,  and  then  we'll  see  if  Jim 
can't  turn  in  the  house  on  our  account,"  he  thought, 
as  he  harnessed  a  team  to  drive  out  to  McPhail's. 

The  first  man  to  try  the  door  was  an  old  Norwegian 
in  a  spotted  Mackinac  jacket  and  a  fur  cap,  with  the 
inevitable  little  red  tippet  about  his  neck.  He  turned 
the  knob,  knocked,  and  at  last  saw  the  writing,  which 
he  could  not  read,  and  went  away  to  tell  Johnson  that 
the  bank  was  closed.  Johnson  thought  nothing  special 
of  that;  it  was  early,  and  they  weren't  very  particular 
to  open  on  time,  anyway, 


A   "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  353 

Then  the  barber  across  the  street  tried  to  get  in  to 
have  a  bill  changed.  Trying  to  peer  in  the  window,  he 
saw  the  notice,  which  he  read  with  a  grin. 

"One  o'  Link's  jobs,"  he  explained  to  the  fellows  in 
the  shop.  "He's  too  darned  lazy  to  open  on  time,  so 
he  puts  up  notice  that  the  bank  is  bu'sted." 

"Let's  go  and  see." 

"Don't  do  it!  He's  watchin'  to  see  us  all  rush  across 
and  look.  Just  keep  quiet,  and  see  the  solid  citizens 
rear  around." 

Old  Orrin  Mcllvaine  came  out  of  the  post-office  and 
tried  the  door  next,  then  stood  for  a  long  time  reading 
the  notice,  and  at  last  walked  thoughtfully  away. 
Soon  he  returned,  to  the  merriment  of  the  fellows  in  the 
barber  shop,  with  two  or  three  solid  citizens  who  had 
been  smoking  an  after-breakfast  cigar  and  planning 
a  deer-hunt.  They  stood  before  the  window  in  a  row 
and  read  the  notice.  Mcllvaine  gesticulated  with 
his  cigar. 

"Gentlemen,  there's  a  pig  loose  here." 

"One  o'  Link's  jokes,  I  reckon." 

"But  that's  Sanford's  writin'.  An'  here  it  is  nine 
o'clock,  and  no  one  round.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it, 
myself." 

The  crowd  thickened;  the  fellows  came  out  of  the 
blacksmith  shop,  while  the  jokers  in  the  barber  shop 
smote  their  knees  and  yelled  with  merriment. 

"What's  up?"  queried  Vance,  coming  up  and  re 
peating  the  universal  question. 

Mcllvaine  pointed  at  the  poster  with  his  cigar. 


354  Main-Travelled   Roads 

Vance  read  the  notice,  while  the  crowd  waited 
silently. 

"What  ye  think  of  it?"  asked  some  one,  impatiently. 

Vance  smoked  a  moment.  "Can't  say.  Where's 
Jim?" 

"That's  it!   Where  is  he?" 

"Best  way  to  find  out  is  to  send  a  boy  up  to  the 
house."  He  called  a  boy  and  sent  him  scurrying  up 
the  street. 

The  crowd  now  grew  sober  and  discussed  possibilities. 

"//  that's  true,  it's  the  worst  crack  on  the  head  / 
ever  had,"  said  Mcllvaine.  "Seventeen  hundred  dol 
lars  is  my  pile  in  there."  He  took  a  seat  on  the  window- 
sill. 

"Well,  I'm  tickled  to  death  to  think  I  got  my  little 
stake  out  before  anything  happened." 

"When  you  think  of  it — what  security  did  he  ever 
give?"  Mcllvaine  continued. 

"Not  a  cent — not  a  red  cent." 

"No,  sir;  we  simply  banked  on  him.  Now,  he's  a 
good  fellow,  an'  this  may  be  a  joke  o'  Link's;  but 
the  fact  is,  it  might  'a'  happened.  Well,  sonny?"  he 
said  to  the  boy,  who  came  running  up. 

"Link  ain't  to  home,  an'  Mrs.  Sanford  she  says 
Jim's  sick,  an'  can't  come  down." 

There  was  a  silence.  "Anybody  see  him  this  morn 
ing?"  asked  Wilson. 

"Yes;  I  saw  him,"  said  Vance.     "Looked  bad,  too." 

The  crowd  changed;  people  came  and  went,  some  to 
get  news,  some  to  carry  it  away.  In  a  short  time  the 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  355 

whole  town  knew  the  bank  had  "bu'sted  all  to  smash." 
Farmers  drove  along,  and  stopped  to  find  out  what  it 
all  meant.  The  more  they  talked,  the  more  excited  they 
grew;  and  "Scoundrel,"  and  "I  always  had  my  doubts 
of  that  feller,"  were  phrases  growing  more  frequent. 

The  list  of  the  victims  grew  until  it  was  evident 
that  nearly  all  of  the  savings  of  a  dozen  or  more  de 
positors  were  swallowed  up,  and  the  sum  reached  was 
nearly  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

"What  did  he  do  with  it?"  was  the  question.  He 
never  gambled  or  drank.  He  lived  frugally.  There 
was  no  apparent  cause  for  this  failure  of  a  trusted  in 
stitution. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow  in  great,  damp,  driving 
flakes,  which  melted  as  they  fell,  giving  to  the  street  a 
strangeness  and  gloom  that  were  impressive.  The 
men  left  the  sidewalk  at  last,  and  gathered  in  the  sa 
loons  and  stores  to  continue  the  discussion. 

The  crowd  at  the  railroad  saloon  was  very  decided 
in  its  belief.  Sanford  had  pocketed  the  money  and 
skipped.  That  yarn  about  his  being  at  home  sick 
was  a  blind.  Some  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  it  was 
almighty  curious  where  Link  was,  hinting  darkly  that 
the  bank  ought  to  be  broken  into,  and  so  on. 

Upon  this  company  burst  Barney  and  Sam  Mace 
from  "Hogan's  Corners."  They  were  excited  by  the 
news  and  already  inflamed  with  drink. 

"Say!"  yelled  Barney,  "any  o'  you  fellers  know 
anything  about  Jim  Sanford  ?" 

"No.    Why?    Got  any  money  there?" 


356  Main-Travelled   Roads 

"Yes;  and  Fm  goin'  to  git  it  out,  if  I  haf  to  smash 
the  door  in." 

"That's  the  talk!"  shouted  some  of  the  loafers. 
They  sprang  up  and  surrounded  Barney.  There  was 
something  in  his  voice  that  aroused  all  their  latent 
ferocity.  "I'm  goin'  to  get  into  that  bank  an'  see  how 
things  look,  an'  then  I'm  goin'  to  find  Sanford  an'  get 
my  money,  or  pound out  of  'im,  one  o'  the  six." 

"Go  find  him  first.  He's  up  home,  sick — so's  his 
wife." 

"I'll  see  whether  he's  sick  'r  not.  I'll  drag  'im  out 
by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck !  Come  on !"  He  ended  with 
a  sudden  resolution,  leading  the  way  out  into  the 
street,  where  the  falling  snow  was  softening  the  dirt 
into  a  sticky  mud. 

A  rabble  of  a  dozen  or  two  of  men  and  boys  followed 
Mace  up  the  street.  He  led  the  way  with  great  strides, 
shouting  his  threats.  As  they  passed  along,  women 
thrust  their  heads  out  at  the  windows,  asking,  "What's 
the  matter?"  And  some  one  answered  each  time,  in 
a  voice  of  unconcealed  delight: 

"Sanford's  stole  all  the  money  in  the  bank,  and 
they're  goin'  up  to  lick  'im.  Come  on  if  ye  want  to 
see  the  fun." 

In  a  few  moments  the  street  looked  as  if  an  alarm 
of  fire  had  been  sounded.  Half  the  town  seemed  to 
be  out,  and  the  other  half  coming — women  in  shawls, 
like  squaws;  children  capering  and  laughing;  young 
men  grinning  at  the  girls  who  came  out  arid  stood  at 
t}ie  gates. 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  357 

Some  of  the  citizens  tried  to  stop  it.  Vance  found  the 
constable  looking  on,  and  ordered  him  to  do  his  duty 
and  stop  that  crowd. 

"I  can't  do  anything,"  he  said,  helplessly.  "They 
ain't  done  nawthm'  yet,  an'  I  don't  know — " 

"Oh,  git  out!  They're  goin'  up  there  to  whale  Jim, 
an'  you  know  it.  If  you  don't  stop  'em,  I'll  telephone 
Pr  the  sheriff,  and  have  you  arrested  with  'em." 

Under  this  pressure,  the  constable  ran  along  after 
the  crowd,  in  an  attempt  to  stop  it.  He  reached  them 
as  they  stood  about  the  little  porch  of  the  house, 
packed  closely  around  Barney  and  Sam,  who  said  noth 
ing,  but  followed  Barney  like  his  shadow.  If  the  sun 
had  been  shining,  it  might  not  have  happened  as  it  did; 
but  there  was  a  semi-obscurity,  a  weird  half-light  shed 
by  the  thick  sky  and  falling  snow,  which  somehow  en 
couraged  the  enraged  ruffians,  who  pounded  on  the  door 
just  as  the  pleading  voice  of  the  constable  was  heard. 

"Hold  on,  gentlemen!    This  is  ag'inst  the  law — 

"Law  to !"  said  some  one.  "This  is  a  case  f'r 

something  besides  law." 

"Open  up  there!"  roared  the  raucous  voice  of  Bar 
ney  Mace,  as  he  pounded  at  the  door  fiercely. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  wife  appeared,  one  child 
in  her  arms,  the  other  at  her  side. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Where's  that  banker?  Tell  the  thief  to  come  out 
here!  We  want  to  talk  with  him." 

The  woman  did  not  quail,  but  her  face  seemed  a 
ghastly  yellow,  seen  through  the  falling  snow. 


358  Main-Travelled   Roads 

"He  can't  come.    He's  sick." 

"Sick!  We'll  sick  'im!  Tell  'im  t'  come  out,  or 
we'll  snake  'im  out  by  the  heels."  The  crowd  laughed. 
The  worst  elements  of  the  saloons  surrounded  the 
two  half-savage  men.  It  was  amusing  to  them  to  see 
the  woman  face  them  all  in  that  way. 

"Where's  McPhail?"  Vance  inquired,  anxiously. 
"Somebody  find  McPhail." 

"Stand  out  o'  the  way!"  snarled  Barney,  as  he  pushed 
the  struggling  woman  aside. 

The  wife  raised  her  voice  to  that  wild,  animal-like 
pitch  a  woman  uses  when  desperate. 

"I  sha'n't  do  it,  I  tell  you!    Help!" 

"Keep  out  o'  my  way,  or  I'll  wring  y'r  neck  f'r  yeh." 

She  struggled  with  him,  but  he  pushed  her  aside 
and  entered  the  room. 

"What's  goin*  on  here?"  called  the  ringing  voice  of 
Andrew  McPhail,  who  had  just  driven  up  with  Link. 

Several  of  the  crowd  looked  over  their  shoulders 
at  McPhail. 

"Hello,  Mac!  Just  in  time.  Oh,  nawthin'.  Barney's 
callin'  on  the  banker,  that's  all." 

Over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  packed  struggling  about 
the  door,  came  the  woman's  scream  again.  McPhail 
dashed  around  the  crowd,  running  two  or  three  of  them 
down,  and  entered  the  back  door.  Vance,  Mcllvaine, 
and  Lincoln  followed  him. 

"Cowards!"  the  wife  said,  as  the  ruffians  approached 
the  bed.  They  swept  her  aside,  but  paused  an  instant 
before  the  glance  of  the  sick  man's  eye.  He  lay  there, 


A  "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  359 

desperately,  deathly  sick.  The  blood  throbbed  in  his 
whirling  brain,  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  blinded,  his 
strength  was  gone.  He  could  hardly  speak.  He  partly 
rose  and  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  then  fell  back. 

"Kill  me — if  you  want  to — but  let  her — alone. 
She's—" 

The  children  were  crying.  The  wind  whistled  drear 
ily  across  the  room,  carrying  the  evanescent  flakes  of 
soft  snow  over  the  heads  of  the  pausing,  listening  crowd 
in  the  doorway.  Quick  steps  were  heard. 

"Hold  on  there!"  cried  McPhail,  as  he  burst  into  the 
room.  He  seemed  an  angel  of  God  to  the  wife  and 
mother. 

He  spread  his  great  arms  in  a  gesture  which  sug 
gested  irresistible  strength  and  resolution.  "Clear 
out!  Out  with  ye!" 

No  man  had  ever  seen  him  look  like  that  before. 
He  awed  them  with  the  look  in  his  eyes.  His  long 
service  as  sheriff  gave  him  authority.  He  hustled 
them,  cuffed  them  out  of  the  door  like  school-boys. 
Barney  backed  out,  cursing.  He  knew  McPhail  too 
well  to  refuse  to  obey. 

McPhail  pushed  Barney  out,  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  and  stood  on  the  steps,  looking  at  the  crowd. 

"Well,  you're  a  great  lot!  You  fellers,  would  ye 
jump  on  a  sick  man?  What  ye  think  ye' re  all  doin', 
anyhow?" 

The  crowd  laughed.    "Hey,  Mac;  give  us  a  speech !" 

"You  ought  to  be  booted,  the  whole  lot  o'  yeh!5' 
he  replied. 


360  Main-Travelled    Roads 

"That  houn'  in  there's  run  the  bank  into  the  ground, 
with  every  cent  o'  money  we'd  put  in,"  said  Barney. 
"I  s'pose  ye  know  that." 

"Well,  s'pose  he  has —what's  the  use  o'  jumpin*  on 


imf 
"Git  it  out  of  his  hide." 


"I've  heerd  that  talk  before.  How  much  you  got 
in?" 

"Two  hundred  dollars." 

"Well,  I've  got  two  thousand."  The  crowd  saw  the 
point. 

"I  guess  if  anybody  was  goin'  t'  take  it  out  of  his 
hide,  I'd  be  the  man;  but  I  want  the  feller  to  live 
and  have  a  chance  to  pay  it  back.  Killin'  *im  is  a  dead 
loss." 

"That's  so!"  shouted  somebody.  "Mac  ain't  no 
fool,  if  he  does  chaw  hay,"  said  another,  and  the  crowd 
laughed.  They  were  losing  that  frenzy,  largely  imi 
tative  and  involuntary,  which  actuates  a  mob.  There 
was  something  counteracting  in  the  ex-sheriff's  cool, 
humorous  tone. 

"Give  us  the  rest  of  it,  Mac!" 

"The  rest  of  it  is — clear  out  o'  here,  'r  I'll  boot  every 
mother's  son  of  yeh !" 

"Can't  do  it!" 

"Come  down  an'  try  it!" 

Mcllvaine  opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  "Mac, 
Mrs.  Sanford  wants  to  say  something — if  it's  safe.'* 

"Safe  as  eatin'  dinner." 

Mrs.   Sanford   came  out,  looking   pale   and   almost 


A   "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  361 

like  a  child  as  she  stood  beside  her  defender's  towering 
bulk.  But  her  face  was  resolute. 

"That  money  will  be  paid  back,"  she  said,  "dollar 
for  dollar,  if  you'll  just  give  us  a  chance.  As  soon 
as  Jim  gets  well  enough  every  cent  will  be  paid,  if  I 
live." 

The  crowd  received  this  little  speech  in  silence. 
One  or  two  said,  in  low  voices:  "That's  business. 
She'll  do  it,  too,  if  any  one  can." 

Barney  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  with  con 
temptuous  curses.  "The she  will!"  he  said. 

"We'll  see  't  you  have  a  chance,"  McPhail  and 
Mcllvaine  assured  Mrs.  Sanford. 

She  went  in  and  closed  the  door. 

"Now  git!"  said  Andrew,  coming  down  the  steps. 
The  crowd  scattered  with  laughing  taunts.  He  turned, 
and  entered  the  house.  The  rest  drifted  off  down 
the  street  through  the  soft  flurries  of  snow,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  street  assumed  its  usual  appearance. 

The  failure  of  the  bank  and  the  raid  on  the  banker 
had  passed  into  history. 


In  the  light  of  the  days  of  calm  afterthought  which 
followed,  this  attempt  upon  the  peace  of  the  Sanford 
home  grew  more  monstrous,  and  helped  largely  to 
mitigate  the  feeling  against  the  banker.  Besides,  he 
had  not  run  away;  that  was  a  strong  point  in  his  favor. 

"Don't   that   show,"    argued    Vance,    in   the   post- 


362  Main-Travelled   Roads 

office — "don't  that  show  he  didn't  intend  to  steal? 
An*  don't  it  show  he's  goin'  to  try  to  make  things 
square?" 

"I  guess  we  might  as  well  think  that  as  anything." 

"I  claim  the  boys  has  a  right  t'  take  sumpthin*  out 
o'  his  hide,"  Bent  Wilson  stubbornly  insisted. 

"Ain't  enough  t'  go  'round,"  laughed  McPhail.  "Be 
sides,  I  can't  have  it.  Link  an'  I  own  the  biggest  share 
in  'im,  an'  we  can't  have  him  hurt." 

Mcllvaine  and  Vance  grinned.  "That's  a  fact,  Mac. 
We  four  fellers  are  the  main  losers.  He's  ours,  an' 
we  can't  have  him  foundered  'r  crippled  'r  cut  up  in 
any  way.  Ain't  that  woman  of  his  gritty  ?" 

"Gritty  ain't  no  name  for  her.  She's  goin'  into 
business." 

"So  I  hear.  They  say  Jim  was  crawling  around  a 
little  yesterday.  I  didn't  see  'im." 

"I  did.    He  looks  pretty  streak-id — now  you  bet." 

"Wha'd  he  say  for  himself?" 

"Oh,  said  give  'im  time — he'd  fix  it  all  up." 

"How  much  time?" 

"Time  enough.  Hain't  been  able  to  look  at  a  book 
since.  Say,  ain't  it  a  little  curious  he  was  so  sick  just 
then — sick  as  a  p'isened  dog?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  a  manner  most 
comically  significant.  The  thought  of  poison  was  in 
the  mind  of  each. 

It  was  under  these  trying  circumstances  that  San- 
tbrd  began  to  crawl  about,  a  week  or  ten  days  afte.r 
his  sickness.  It  was  really  the  most  terrible  punishment 


A  "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  363 

for  him.  Before,  everybody  used  to  sing  out,  "Hello, 
Jim!"  or  "Mornin',  banker,"  or  some  other  jovial, 
heart-warming  salutation.  Now,  as  he  went  down  the 
street,  the  groups  of  men  smoking  on  the  sunny  side 
of  the  stores  ignored  him,  or  looked  at  him  with  scornful 
eyes. 

Nobody  said,  "Hello,  Jim!" — not  even  McPhail 
or  Vance.  They  nodded  merely,  and  went  on  with 
their  smoking.  The  children  followed  him  and  stared 
at  him  without  compassion.  They  had  heard  him 
called  a  scoundrel  and  a  thief  too  often  at  home  to 
feel  any  pity  for  his  pale  face. 

After  his  first  trip  down  the  street,  bright  with  the 
December  sunshine,  he  came  home  in  a  bitter,  weak 
mood,  smarting,  aching  with  a  poignant  self-pity  over 
the  treatment  he  had  received  from  his  old  cronies. 

"It's  all  your  fault,"  he  burst  out  to  his  wife.  "If 
you'd  only  let  me  go  away  and  look  up  another  place 
I  wouldn't  have  to  put  up  with  all  these  sneers  and 
insults." 

"What  sneers  and  insults?"  she  asked,  coming  over 
to  him. 

"Why,  nobody  '11  speak  to  me." 

"Won't  Mr.  McPhail  and  Mr.  Mcllvaine?" 

"Yes;  but  not  as  they  used  to." 

"You  can't  blame  'em,  Jim.  You  must  go  to  work 
and  win  back  their  confidence." 

"I  can't  do  that.    Let's  go  away,  Nell,  and  try  again." 

Her  mouth  closed  firmly.  A  hard  look  came  into  her 
eyes.  "You  can  go  if  you  want  to,  Jim.  I'm  goin'  to 


364  Main-Travelled    Roads 

stay  right  here  till  we  can  leave  honorably.  We  can't 
run  away  from  this.  It  would  follow  us  anywhere  we 
went;  and  it  would  get  worse  the  farther  we  went." 

He  knew  the  unyielding  quality  of  his  wife's  resolu 
tion,  and  from  that  moment  he  submitted  to  his  fate. 
He  loved  his  wife  and  children  with  a  passionate  love 
that  made  life  with  them,  among  the  citizens  he  had 
robbed,  better  than  life  anywhere  else  on  earth;  he 
had  no  power  to  leave  them. 

As  soon  as  possible  he  went  over  his  books  and  found 
out  that  he  owed,  above  all  notes  coming  in,  about 
eleven  thousand  dollars.  This  was  a  large  sum  to  look 
forward  to  paying  by  anything  he  could  do  in  the  Siding, 
now  that  his  credit  was  gone.  Nobody  would  take  him 
as  a  clerk,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  ex 
cept  manual  labor,  and  he  was  not  strong  enough  for 
that. 

His  wife,  however,  had  a  plan.  She  sent  East  to 
friends  for  a  little  money  at  once,  and  with  a  few  hun 
dred  dollars  opened  a  little  store  in  time  for  the  holiday 
trade — wall-paper,  notions,  light  dry-goods,  toys,  and 
millinery.  She  did  her  own  housework  and  attended 
to  her  shop  in  a  grim,  uncomplaining  fashion  that 
made  Sanford  feel  like  a  criminal  in  her  presence.  He 
couldn't  propose  to  help  her  in  the  store,  for  he  knew 
the  people  would  refuse  to  trade  with  him,  so  he  at 
tended  to  the  children  and  did  little  things  about  the 
house  for  the  first  few  months  of  the  winter. 

His  life  for  a  time  was  abjectly  pitiful.  He  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  He  had  lost  his  footing,  and,  worst 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  365 

of  all,  he  felt  that  his  wife  no  longer  respected  him. 
She  loved  and  pitied  him,  but  she  no  longer  looked  up 
to  him.  She  went  about  her  work  and  down  to  her 
store  with  a  silent,  resolute,  uncommunicative  air, 
utterly  unlike  her  former  sunny,  domestic  self,  so  that 
even  she  seemed  alien  like  the  rest.  If  he  had  been  ill, 
Vance  and  McPhail  would  have  attended  him;  as  it 
was,  they  could  not  help  him. 

She  already  had  the  sympathy  of  the  entire  town, 
and  Mcllvaine  had  said:  "If  you  need  more  money, 
you  can  have  it,  Mrs.  Sanford.  Call  on  us  at  any  time." 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  think  I'll  need  it.  All  I  ask  is 
your  trade,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  ask  anybody  to 
pay  more'n  a  thing's  worth,  either.  Fm  goin'  to  sell 
goods  on  business  principles,  and  I  expect  folks  to  buy 
of  me  because  I'm  selling  reliable  goods  as  cheap  as 
anybody  else." 

Her  business  was  successful  from  the  start,  but  she 
did  not  allow  herself  to  get  too  confident. 

"This  is  a  kind  of  charity  trade.  It  won't  last  on 
that  basis.  Folks  ain't  goin'  to  buy  of  me  because  I'm 
poor — not  very  long,"  she  said  to  Vance,  who  went 
in  to  congratulate  her  on  her  booming  trade  during 
Christmas  and  New  Year. 

Vance  called  so  often,  advising  or  congratulating 
her,  that  the  boys  joked  him,  "Say,  looky  here!  You're 
goin'  to  get  into  a  peck  o'  trouble  with  your  wife  yet. 
You  spend  about  half  y'r  time  in  the  new  store." 

Vance  looked  serene  as  he  replied,  "I'd  stay  longer 
and  go  oftener  if  I  could." 


366  Main-Travelled   Roads 

"Well,  if  you  ain't  cheekier  'n  ol'  cheek!  I  should 
think  you'd  be  ashamed  to  say  it." 

"'Shamed  of  it?  I'm  proud  of  it!  As  I  tell  my 
wife,  if  I'd  'a'  met  Mis'  Sanford  when  we  was  both 
young,  they  wouldn't  'a*  be'n  no  such  present  ar 
rangement." 

The  new  life  made  its  changes  in  Mrs.  Sanford. 
She  grew  thinner  and  graver,  but  as  she  went  on,  and 
trade  steadily  increased,  a  feeling  of  pride,  a  sort  of 
exultation,  came  into  her  soul  and  shone  from  her 
steady  eyesA  It  was  glorious  to  feel  that  she  was  hold 
ing  her  own  with  men  in  the  world,  winning  their 
respect,  which  is  better  than  their  flatter^  She  arose 
each  day  at  five  o'clock  with  a  distinct  pleasure,  for 
her  physical  health  was  excellent,  never  better. 

She  began  to  dream.  She  could  pay  off  five  hun 
dred  dollars  a  year  of  the  interest — perhaps  she  could 
pay  some  of  the  principal,  if  all  went  well.  Perhaps 
in  a  year  or  two  she  could  take  a  larger  store,  and,  if 
Jim  got  something  to  do,  in  ten  years  they  could  pay 
it  all  off — every  cent!  She  talked  with  business  men, 
and  read  and  studied,  and  felt  each  day  a  firmer  hold 
on  affairs. 

Sanford  got  the  agency  of  an  insurance  company 
or  two,  and  earned  a  few  dollars  during  the  spring.  In 
June  things  brightened  up  a  little.  The  money  for  a 
note  of  a  thousand  dollars  fell  due — a  note  he  had 
considered  virtually  worthless,  but  the  debtor,  having 
had  a  "streak  o'  luck,"  sent  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars.  Sanford  at  once  called  a  meeting  of  his  cred- 


A   "Good    Fellow's"   Wife  367 

itors,  and  paid  them,  pro  rata,  a  thousand  dollars. 
The  meeting  took  place  in  his  wife's  store,  and  in  mak 
ing  the  speech  Sanford  said : 

"I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  only  give  us  a  chance, 
we'll  clear  this  thing  all  up — that  is,  the  principal. 
We  can't—" 

"Yes,  we  can,  James.  We  can  pay  it  all,  principal 
and  interest.  We  owe  the  interest  just  as  much  as 
the  rest."  It  was  evident  that  there  was  to  be  no  letting 
down  while  she  lived. 

The  effect  of  this  payment  was  marked.  The  general 
feeling  was  much  more  kindly  than  before.  Most  of  the 
fellows  dropped  back  into  the  habit  of  calling  him 
Jim;  but,  after  all,  it  was  not  like  the  greeting  of  old, 
when  he  was  "banker."  Still  the  gain  in  confidence 
found  a  reflex  in  him.  His  shoulders,  which  had 
begun  to  droop  a  little,  lifted,  and  his  eyes  brightened. 

"We'll  win  yet,"  he  began  to  say. 

"She's  a-holdin'  of  'im  right  to  time,"  Mrs.  Bing- 
ham  said. 

It  was  shortly  after  this  that  he  got  the  agency  for 
a  new  cash-delivery  system,  and  went  on  the  road 
with  it,  travelling  in  northern  Wisconsin  and  Minne 
sota.  He  came  back  after  a  three  weeks'  trip,  quite 
jubilant.  "I've  made  a  hundred  dollars,  Nell.  I'm 
all  right  if  this  holds  out,  and  I  guess  it  will." 

In  the  following  November,  just  a  year  after  the 
failure,  they  celebrated  the  day,  at  her  suggestion,  by 
paying  interest  on  the  unpaid  sums  they  owed. 

"T  could  pay  a  little  more  on  the  principal,"  she  ex- 


368  Main-Travelled    Roads 

plained,  "but  I  guess  it'll  be  better  to  use  it  for  my 
stock.  I  can  pay  better  dividends  next  year." 

"Take  y'r  time,  Mrs.  Sanford,"  Vance  said. 

Of  course  she  could  not  escape  criticism.  There 
were  the  usual  number  of  women  who  noticed  that  she 
kept  her  "young  uns"  in  the  latest  style,  when  as  a 
matter  of  fact  she  sat  up  nights  to  make  their  little 
things.  They  also  noticed  that  she  retained  her  house 
and  her  furniture. 

"If  I  was  in  her  place,  seems  to  me,  I'd  turn  in  some 
o'  my  fine  furniture  towards  my  debts,"  Mrs.  Sam  Gil 
bert  said,  spitefully. 

She  did  not  even  escape  calumny.  Mrs.  Sam  Gil 
bert  darkly  hinted  at  certain  "goin's  on  durin'  his  bein' 
away.  Lit  up  till  after  midnight  some  nights.  I  c'n 
see  her  winder  from  mine." 

Rose  McPhail,  one  of  Mrs.  Sanford's  most  devoted 
friends,  asked,  quietly,  "Do  you  sit  up  all  night  t' 
see?" 

"S'posin*  I  do!"  she  snapped.  "I  can't  sleep  with 
such  things  goin'  on." 

"If  it'll  do  you  any  good,  Jane,  I'll  say  that  she's 
settin'  up  there  sewin'  for  the  children.  If  you'd  keep 
your  nose  out  o'  other  folks'  affairs,  and  attend  better 
to  your  own,  your  house  wouldn't  look  like  a  pig-pen, 
an'  your  children  like  A-rabs." 

But  in  spite  of  a  few  annoyances  of  this  character 
Mrs.  Sanford  found  her  new  life  wholesomer  and 
broader  than  her  old  life,  and  the  pain  of  her  loss 
grew  less  poignant. 


A  "Good  Fellow's"  Wife  369 

VI 

One  day  in  spring,  in  the  lazy,  odorous  hush  of  the 
afternoon,  the  usual  number  of  loafers  were  standing 
on  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  train.  The  sun  was 
going  down  the  slope  toward  the  hills,  through  a  warm 
April  haze. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  the  man  who  always  sees  things 
first.  "Here  comes  Mrs.  Sanford  and  the  ducklings." 

Everybody  looked. 

" Ain't  goin'  off,  is  she?" 

"Nope;  guess  not.  Meet  somebody,  prob'ly  San- 
ford." 

"Well,  somethin's  up.  She  don't  often  get  out  o' 
that  store." 

"Le's  see;  he's  been  gone  most  o'  the  winter,  hain't 
he?" 

"Yes;  went  away  about  New- Year's." 

Mrs.  Sanford  came  past,  leading  a  child  by  each 
hand,  nodding  and  smiling  to  friends — for  all  seemed 
friends.  She  looked  very  resolute  and  business-like  in 
her  plain,  dark  dress,  with  a  dull  flame  of  color  at  the 
throat,  while  the  broad  hat  she  wore  gave  her  face  a 
touch  of  piquancy  very  charming.  Evidently  she  was 
in  excellent  spirits,  and  laughed  and  chatted  in  quite  a 
care-free  way. 

She  was  now  an  institution  at  the  Siding.  Her 
store  had  grown  in  proportions  yearly,  until  it  was  as 
large  and  commodious  as  any  in  the  town.  The  drum 
mers  for  dry-goods  all  called  there,  and  the  fact  that 


370  Main-Travelled   Roads 

she  did  not  sell  any  groceries  at  all  did  not  deter  the 
drummers  for  grocery  houses  from  calling  to  see  each 
time  if  she  hadn't  decided  to  put  in  a  stock  of  groceries. 

These  keen-eyed  young  fellows  had  spread  her  fame 
all  up  and  down  the  road.  She  had  captured  them, 
not  by  beauty,  but  by  her  pluck,  candor,  honesty,  and 
by  a  certain  fearless  but  reserved  camaraderie.  She 
was  not  afraid  of  them,  or  of  anybody  else,  now. 

The  train  whistled,  and  everybody  turned  to  watch 
it  as  it  came  pushing  around  the  bluff  like  a  huge 
hound  on  a  trail,  its  nose  close  to  the  ground.  Among 
the  first  to  alight  was  Sanford,  in  a  shining  new  silk 
hat  and  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  He  was  smiling  gaily 
as  he  fought  his  way  through  the  crowd  to  his  wife's 
side.  "Hello!"  he  shouted.  "I  thought  I'd  see  you 
all  here." 

"W'y,  Jim>  ain't  you  cuttin'  a  swell?" 

"A  swell!  Well,  who's  got  a  better  right?  A  man 
wants  to  look  as  well  as  he  can  when  he  comes  home 
to  such  a  family." 

"Hello,  Jim!    That  plug  '11  never  do." 

"Hello,  Vance!  Yes;  but  it's  got  to  do.  Say,  you 
tell  all  the  fellers  that's  got  anything  ag'inst  me  to 
come  around  to-morrow  night  to  the  store.  I  want 
to  make  some  kind  of  a  settlement." 

"All  right,  Jim.    Goin'  to  pay  a  new  dividend?" 

"That's  what  I  am,"  he  beamed,  as  he  walked  off 
with  his  wife,  who  was  studying  him  sharply. 

"Jim,  what  ails  you?" 

"Nothin';   I'm  all  right." 


A  "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  371 

"But  this  new  suit?  And  the  hat?  And  the  necktie?" 

He  laughed  merrily — so  merrily,  in  fact,  that  his 
wife  looked  at  him  the  more  anxiously.  He  appeared 
to  be  in  a  queer  state  of  intoxication — a  state  that  made 
him  happy  without  impairing  his  faculties,  however. 
He  turned  suddenly  and  put  his  lips  down  toward 
her  ear.  "Well,  Nell,  I  can't  hold  in  any  longer. 
We've  struck  it!" 

"Struck  what?" 

"Well,  you  see  that  derned  fool  partner  o'  mine 
got  me  to  go  into  a  lot  o'  land  in  the  copper  country. 
That's  where  all  the  trouble  came.  He  got  awfully  let 
down.  Well,  he's  had  some  surveyors  to  go  up  there 
lately  and  look  it  over,  and  the  next  thing  we  knew 
the  Superior  Mining  Company  came  along  an'  wanted 
to  buy  it.  Of  course  we  didn't  want  to  sell  just  then." 

They  had  reached  the  store  door,  and  he  paused, 

"We'll  go  right  home  to  supper,"  she  said.  "The 
girls  will  look  out  for  things  till  I  get  back." 

They  walked  on  together,  the  children  laughing  and 
playing  ahead. 

"Well,  upshot  of  it  is,  I  sold  out  my  share  to  Osgood 
for  twenty  thousand  dollars." 

She  stopped,  and  stared  at  him.  "Jim — Gordon 
Sanford!" 

"Fact!  I  can  prove  it."  He  patted  his  breast  pocket 
mysteriously.  "Ten  thousand  right  there." 

"Gracious  sakes  alive!  How  dare  you  carry  so  much 
money  ?" 

"I'm  mighty  glad  o'  the  chance."    He  grinned. 


372  Main-Travelled    Roads 

They  walked  on  almost  in  silence,  with  only  a  word 
now  and  then.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply, 
and  he  didn't  want  to  disturb  her.  It  was  a  delicious 
spring  hour.  The  snow  was  all  gone,  even  under  the 
hedges.  The  roads  were  warm  and  brown.  The  red 
sun  was  flooding  the  valley  with  a  misty,  rich-colored 
light,  and  against  the  orange  and  gold  of  the  sky  the 
hills  stood  in  Tyrian  purple.  Wagons  were  rattling 
along  the  road.  Men  on  the  farms  in  the  edge  of  the 
village  could  be  heard  whistling  at  their  work.  A  dis 
cordant  jangle  of  a  neighboring  farmer's  supper-bell 
announced  that  it  was  time  "to  turn  out." 

Sanford  was  almost  as  gay  as  a  lover.  He  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  regaining  his  old  place  in  his 
wife's  respect.  Somehow  the  possession  of  the  package 
of  money  in  his  pocket  seemed  to  make  him  more 
worthy  of  her,  to  put  him  more  on  an  equality  with 
her. 

As  they  reached  the  little  one-story  square  cottage 
he  sat  down  on  the  porch,  where  the  red  light  fell 
warmly,  and  romped  with  the  children,  while  his  wife 
went  in  and  took  off  her  things.  She  "kept  a  girl" 
now,  so  that  the  work  of  getting  supper  did  not  devolve 
entirely  upon  her.  She  came  out  soon  to  call  them 
all  to  the  supper-table  in  the  little  kitchen  back  of  the 
sitting-room. 

The  children  were  wild  with  delight  to  have  "poppa" 
back,  and  the  meal  was  the  merriest  they  had  had  for 
a  long  time.  The  doors  and  windows  were  open,  and 
the  spring  evening  air  came  in,  laden  with  the  sweet, 


A  "Good   Fellow's"   Wife  373 

suggestive  smell  of  bare  ground.  The  alert  chuckle 
of  an  occasional  robin  could  be  heard. 

Mrs.  Sanford  looked  up  from  her  tea.  "There's 
one  thing  I  don't  like,  Jim,  and  that's  the  way  that 
money  comes.  You  didn't — you  didn't  really  earn  it." 

"Oh,  don't  worry  yourself  about  that.  That's 
the  way  things  go.  It's  just  luck." 

"Well,  I  can't  see  it  just  that  way.  It  seems  to  me 
just — like  gambling.  You  win,  but — but  somebody 
else  must  lose." 

"Oh  well,  look  a-here;  if  you  go  to  lookin'  too  sharp 
into  things  like  that,  you'll  find  a  good  'eal  of  any 
business  like  gamblin'." 

She  said  no  more,  but  her  face  remained  clouded. 
On  the  way  down  to  the  store  they  met  Lincoln. 

"Come  down  to  the  store,  Link,  and  bring  Joe.  I 
want  to  talk  with  yeh." 

Lincoln  stared,  but  said,  "All  right."  Then  added, 
as  the  others  walked  away,  "Well,  that  feller  ain't 
got  no  cheek  t'  talk  to  me  like  that — more  cheek  'n 
a  gov'ment  rnule!" 

Jim  took  a  seat  near  the  door,  and  watched  his  wife 
as  she  went  about  the  store.  She  employed  two  clerks 
now,  while  she  attended  to  the  books  and  the  cash. 
He  thought  how  different  she  was,  and  he  liked  (and, 
in  a  way,  feared)  her  cool,  business-like  manner,  her 
self-possession,  and  her  smileless  conversation  with  a 
drummer  who  came  in.  Jim  was  puzzled.  He  didn't 
quite  understand  the  peculiar  effect  his  wife's  manner 
had  upon  him. 


374  Main-Travelled   Roads 

Outside,  word  had  passed  around  that  Jim  had  got 
back  and  that  something  was  in  the  wind,  and  the 
fellows  began  to  drop  in.  When  McPhail  came  in  and 
said,  "Hello!"  in  his  hearty  way,  Sanford  went  over 
to  his  wife  and  said: 

"Say,  Nell,  I  can't  stand  this.  I'm  goin*  to  get  rid 
o'  this  money  right  off,  now!" 

"Very  well;  just  as  you  please." 

"Gents,"  he  began,  turning  his  back  to  the  counter 
and  smiling  blandly  on  them,  one  thumb  in  his  vest 
pocket,  "any  o'  you  fellers  got  anything  against  the 
Lumber  County  Bank — any  certificates  of  deposit,  or 
notes?" 

Two  or  three  nodded,  and  McPhail  said,  humorously, 
slapping  his  pocket,  "I  always  go  loaded." 

"Produce  your  paper,  gents,"  continued  Sanford, 
with  a  dramatic  whang  of  a  leathern  wallet  down  into 
his  palm.  "Fm  buying  up  all  paper  on  the  bank." 

It  was  a  superb  stroke.  The  fellows  whistled  and 
stared  and  swore  at  one  another.  This  was  coming 
down  on  them.  Link  was  dumb  with  amazement  as 
he  received  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  crisp, 
new  bills. 

"Andrew,  it's  your  turn  next."  Sanford's  tone  was 
actually  patronizing  as  he  faced  McPhail. 

"I  was  jokin'.    I  ain't  got  my  certificate  here." 

"Don't  matter — don't  matter.  Here's  fifteen  hun 
dred  dollars.  Just  give  us  a  receipt,  and  bring  the 
certif.  any  time.  I  want  to  get  rid  o'  this  stuff  right 


A  "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  375 

"Say,  Jim,  we'd  like  to  know  jest — jest  where  this 
windfall  comes  from,"  said  Vance,  as  he  took  his  share. 

"Comes  from  the  copper  country,"  was  all  he  ever 
said  about  it. 

"I  don't  see  where  he  invested,"  Link  said.  "Wasn't 
a  scratch  of  a  pen  to  show  that  he  invested  anything 
while  he  was  in  the  bank.  Guess  that's  where  our 
money  went." 

"Well,  I  ain't  squealin',"  said  Vance.  "I'm  glad 
to  get  out  of  it  without  asking  any  questions.  I'll  tell 
yeh  one  thing,  though,"  he  added,  as  they  stood  out 
side  the  door;  "we'd  V  never  smelt  of  our  money 
again  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  f  r  that  woman  in  there. 
She'd  'a'  paid  it  alone  if  Jim  hadn't  'a'  made  this 
strike,  whereas  he  never  'd  'a* —  Well,  all  right.  We're 
out  of  it." 

It  was  one  of  the  greatest  moments  of  Sanford's  life. 
He  expanded  in  it.  He  was  as  pleasantly  aware  of 
the  glances  of  his  wife  as  he  used  to  be  when,  as  a 
clerk,  he  saw  her  pass  and  look  in  at  the  window  where 
he  sat  dreaming  over  his  ledger. 

As  for  her,  she  was  going  over  the  whole  situation 
from  this  new  standpoint.  He  had  been  weak,  he  had 
fallen  in  her  estimation,  and  yet,  as  he  stood  there,  so 
boyish  in  his  exultation,  the  father  of  her  children, 
she  loved  him  with  a  touch  of  maternal  tenderness 
and  hope,  and  her  heart  throbbed  in  an  unconscious, 
swift  determination  to  do  him  good.  She  no  longer 
deceived  herself.  She  was  his  equal — in  some  ways 


376  Main-Travelled   Roads 

his  superior.  Her  love  had  friendship  in  it,  but  less  of 
sex,  and  no  adoration. 

As  she  blew  out  the  lights,  stepped  out  on  the  walk, 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  said,  "Well,  Nellie, 
you  won't  have  to  do  that  any  more." 

"No;  I  won't  have  to,  but  I  guess  I'll  keep  on  just 
the  same,  Jim." 

"Keep  on?    What  for?" 

"Well,  I  rather  like  it." 

"But  you  don't  need  to — 

"I  like  being  my  own  boss,"  she  said.  "I've  done 
a  lot  o'  figuring,  Jim,  these  last  three  years,  and  it's 
kind  o'  broadened  me,  I  hope.  I  can't  go  back  where  I 
was.  I'm  a  better  woman  than  I  was  before,  and  I 
hope  and  believe  that  I'm  better  able  to  be  a  real 
mother  to  my  children." 

Jim  looked  up  at  the  moon  filling  the  warm,  moist 
air  with  a  transfiguring  light  that  fell  in  a  luminous 
mist  on  the  distant  hills.  "I  know  one  thing,  Nellie; 
I'm  a  better  man  than  I  was  before,  and  it's  all  owin' 
to  you." 

His  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  the  sympathetic 
tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  didn't  speak  at  once — 
she  couldn't.  At  last  she  stopped  him  by  a  touch  on 
the  arm. 

"Jim,  I  want  a  partner  in  my  store.  Let  us  begin 
again,  right  here.  I  can't  say  that  I'll  ever  feel  just 
as  I  did  once — I  don't  know  as  it's  right  to.  I  looked 
up  to  you  too  much.  I  expected  too  much  of  you,  too, 
Let's  begin  again,  as  equal  partners."  She  held  out 


A   "Good   Fellow's"  Wife  377 

her  hand,  as  one  man  to  another.  He  took  it  won- 
deringly. 

"All  right,  Nell;  I'll  do  it." 

Then,  as  he  put  his  arm  around  her,  she  held  up  her 
lips  to  be  kissed.  "And  we'll  be  happy  again — happy 
as  we  deserve,  I  s'pose,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  and  a 
sigh. 

"It's  almost  like  getting  married  again,  Nell — for 
me." 

As  they  walked  off  up  the  sidewalk  in  the  soft  moon 
light,  their  arms  were  interlocked. 

They  loitered  like  a  couple  of  lovers. 


THE   END 


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i  nCPi 

* 

FORM  NO.  DD  6,  40m,  6'76 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  E 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U-.C.  BERKELEY 


BOOD77S7S8 


